


The Makings of a Scoundrel

by TheDuckofIndeed



Category: Ni No Kuni: Wrath of the White Witch (Video Game)
Genre: Abandoned story returns from the dead, Backstory, Brotherly Love, Brothers, Crimes & Criminals, Family, Homelessness, Originally Posted on FanFiction.Net, Plenty of OCs for Plot Purposes, Riches to Rags, Running Away, Suicidal Thoughts, Violence, questionable life choices
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-24
Updated: 2020-11-23
Packaged: 2021-03-06 14:54:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 45,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26090719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheDuckofIndeed/pseuds/TheDuckofIndeed
Summary: Why was it so often the case that those with power were so quick to throw it away?  This story is meant to explore Swaine's backstory and how he went from a prince to a thief.
Relationships: Emperor of Hamelin & Jairo | Swaine, Jairo | Swaine & Lars | Marcassin
Comments: 7
Kudos: 12





	1. An Uncommonly Common Boy

Countless bodies passed through the bronze streets of Hamelin, jostling without thought through the crowd as if their very position in society depended on it as much as a bit of force was necessary to make progress to the market or the factories or anywhere else. It was for this reason that no one paid any mind to a certain ragged boy in their midst, for to distinguish him from the throng would have required a second perusal, and no one had time for the first.

This common, everyday street urchin, if someone had actually found the time to pause in their busy schedules to _look_ at him, was of a raggedness that seemed strangely intentional, in a crooked cap and medium-length coat stained with a suspiciously neat smudge of soot just above the hem. Just the simple fact that both his shoes were still securely attached to their respective soles was a baffling detail even your run-of-the-mill scamp would find curious if they were not more focused on things far more vital, namely earning the odd guilder or two that would make their families’ lives just the smallest ounce easier.

If they had stopped and spared him the luxury poor folks worked to the bone for, but inevitably received not even the leftover crumbs of in return, perhaps most perplexing of all to see in such an uncommonly common boy, whose hair looked as if it had been washed and combed within the last 24 hours, was that _he_ was the only one who was not in a hurry.

The ambling young beggar with a round face devoid of anything that could possibly be mistaken for want, strolled through the city of gears and steam with a casual air anyone else in his position would know was a privilege rarely afforded them, both hands in his coat pockets as much for comfort as in a simple, but effective, defense against pickpockets. It gave him minimal trouble to meander through the eternally fluctuating pathways created by a churning sea of bodies, for he had, as far as could be guessed, nowhere to be and no deadline to be there.

His goal for the day had already been fulfilled, and he fingered the slight weight in his pocket created by the object he had acquired in Hamelin’s black market, just one of many pieces he had sought out for a very special project he was building. While few his age knew where that shadowy establishment hid and even fewer could find it a second time once its location inevitably changed again, when he made up his mind to do something, he always followed through on it.

As a necessity to keep this promise he had made to himself, he had come to know the streets and alleys of the world’s most technologically advanced city as well as any could. Even as it grew and changed, as much in its physical layout as in its scientific breakthroughs, this city felt very much sometimes as if it was _his_ city. Though he believed it would be far more accurate to describe it, rather, as a vast machine of gears and pipes and pistons, a machine made of steel as well as people, whose inner workings he had studied and come to know intimately. For he was quite certain in the wee hours of the night when there was nothing to occupy one’s time but dreams, waking or not, that he felt like an ache in a rotting tooth that this city comprised his entire world and would until his dying breath. And if one was stuck with something, one might as well become the master of it.

The boy slipped like a shadow into the nearest alley, a path too narrow and out of the way to be of any use to those with tight schedules to keep and guilders to be made and spent. And yet, despite its physical width, it might have been a highway in the space it offered in comparison. The noise was the second thing to drop off, albeit far more gradually, as every turn the alley made reduced the chattering and the organic buzz of human voices, until it was but a scarcely noticeable drone that had no choice but to give way to the squeak of turning wheels and the hiss of escaping steam, the heart and lungs of a monstrous mechanical beast whose very gut they resided in.

His pace quickened just enough to shorten his journey without allowing the occasional passerby the opportunity to mistake him for someone short on time until he was stopped by a high wall. With no more delay wasted than a single glance about him, the most purposeful sign he had exhibited during his entire day’s stroll, he entered a back door only he knew, an act which would have warranted serious reconsideration had he indeed been what he was trying very hard to appear to be.

His cap was the first to go, followed by the coat, which was spared half a mind more than the cap as it was folded and tucked under one arm with absent care for the contents of its right pocket, the beginnings of a transformation the folks milling about outside might have actually noticed had it taken place in their midst. The unnaturally tidy street urchin smoothed the far too recently washed brown hair his cap had previously obscured and straightened a short coat quite unlike the first, for it lacked any sign of wear, purposeful or not, and was bordered in gilded thread. Simple, but elegant, chandeliers peered down in lofty approval from high ceilings, while his own regal reflection mimicked every sauntering step of that haughty march from the polished floor that made him look every inch his height and more. And it could hardly be certain if it was the doing of his surroundings that accounted for so complete a change in his appearance or, as seemed more likely the case, the other way around.

Prince Gascon paid the palace guards no mind, their solemn nods in his direction receiving no outward response in return as he passed them by, for his thoughts were still focused on the day’s events and notions of what future days might hold behind doors whose locks not even the most skilled of thieves could pick. He coughed as he took notice of a rawness in his throat he had learned from experience was a consequence of the blanket of choking smog that always slithered beneath Hamelin’s high canopy. The discomfort always passed with enough time spent indoors (ice cream always helped to speed up the process), but today it was more pronounced than it had been since his outings to the streets beyond had begun just a couple years prior. Curiosity was a young boy’s greatest companion, and greatest danger, and not even nobility was exempt from it.

He had hardly arrived back in his bedchambers and hidden away his newest find in a box he kept hidden beneath the wardrobe with the rest of what had still yet to progress beyond collected scrap when one side of the double doors flung open behind him and struck the wall with a shuddering bang.

The prince spun to meet the intruder, and his words left his throat before the action had yet been completed. “Can’t you knock?” he asked, but his fists unclenched as his younger brother stumbled to a halt in the middle of the room as if reeling from some unseen blow.

Prince Marcassin’s bottom lip quivered, and he hiccupped from the sobs that had already reddened his cheeks. He wiped his eyes with one sleeve.

“G-Gascon,” the small child said and drew in a loud sniff. “Gascon, i-it’s mu-Mummy—” he attempted to say, but the way his shoulders shook said more than words ever could.

* * *

It occurred to Gascon with bitter revelation that death only brought rain in books. Not in real life.

In real life, you couldn’t just turn back the pages.

The funeral procession was hardly different from any other appearance the Hamelin royal family made to the public, but wherever it strayed in even the smallest detail brought with it a thickness in the air the elder prince wondered if anyone else could feel. It constricted him, suffocated him without causing any change in breathing. The normally raucous crowd stood like a sea of black on either side of the street like stagnant waters making way for the passage of a boat, and it was a wonder they, too, still breathed amidst the stillness. He swallowed, to hold back a scream that threatened to pierce the silence, but one glance up at their father, whose expression was no less severe than usual, was enough to extinguish any such urge he might have.

Why did his heart feel like glass, as if every beat threatened to make it shatter? Never before had all those faces made him squirm inside, never before had those watchful eyes compelled him so strongly to run, and in that moment, he thought he knew what it might feel like to be a statue people stared up at, which could flee their scrutiny no more than he could beg their father to let him hide until this whole day, and the weeks and months that followed, had passed.

And yet, fragile as it felt, his heart pounded within his chest, as his mind dwelled on anything but the ivory box rimmed with pale lilies their focus was supposed to be upon. It was not allowed, unheard of, for the future emperor of Hamelin to show weakness. It was against the _rules_ to cry. What else could be expected from one whom the very buildings themselves parted and soldiers laid down their lives to protect? One day, the fate of the entire empire would rest on his shoulders. How could wars be won and peace be maintained if the emperor lost his nerve?

Marcassin grabbed his hand in one of his own, and Gascon drew in a deep breath that hitched within his chest. He squeezed his eyes shut and, in a fleeing sense of self-restraint, allowed a few hot tears to slip free.

He couldn’t live up to it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I originally started writing this story five years ago, only to abandon it. Now that I've begun to replay the game and have discovered that my affection for Swaine is as strong as ever (if not more so), I decided it was time to finish what I started all those years ago. I'll be moving over the first five chapters from fanfiction.net, and then I've got a whole bunch of chapters that need reworking, including 50 pages I typed up this weekend from an old notebook! Now there's determination!
> 
> Hope you guys enjoy! I'm so excited to write about Swaine again (my mind is absolutely flooded with new ideas, but I'd better focus on one thing at a time...). It's so ironic looking back and recalling how I actually really disliked Swaine when I first encountered him upon my first playthrough! It just goes to show that first impressions aren't all they're cracked up to be, since he's now my favorite character in the game. Anyway, enough rambling...


	2. The Hamelin Way

Gascon stood transfixed by two voices he knew all too well, that could have been too easily lost beneath the drumbeat of his own heart had he not channeled all his focus into straining his ears for every syllable, every pause, every breath that was taken, had the last been possible to detect at this distance. The only other thing he was paying any attention to was pressing his back against the cold wall behind him in such a statuesque stillness, he would have greatly benefited from sprouting roots to assist in holding him steady.

Long had certain questions plagued his mind, the deceptively simple “what if” that had served to torment mankind since before even the Nazcaan civilization was but a distant future. As long as they _remained_ in his mind, however, they could do him no harm. As long as they never broke free, to find a voice to utter them and make them real, he had nothing to fear.

“But, Your Majesty, as I’m sure you’re well aware…” came the meeker of the two voices through the crack in the great double doors the prince had found himself frozen beside.

“ _If_ I’m already aware, as you have just admitted, then I’d think there’s no need to say it, now is there?”

Gascon winced at the deep voice whose very tone he had come to dread, that could inspire feelings of inadequacy in even a bumblebee over how well it flew. If anyone had left the doors ajar on purpose, if the gap through which their words could flow was intentional and a jury was debating over the culprit, he would be their man.

There was a pause, which he knew from experience was not for lack of something to say, and which he was certain must be accompanied by fidgeting, and then the first voice made a second attempt. “My lord, the heir to the throne _must_ also be the next Great Sage. It has been this way since, well, generations, many, many generations. If he’d only _apply_ himself, I’m sure I could-he’s just a boy, but he could learn if you just. Give. Me. More. Time.”

A soft chuckle just managed to creep forth from the room. “Are you pleading for his case or your own?” Several slow and heavy footsteps followed that forbade interruption. “As you are no doubt aware, my eldest son has no magical potential to speak of. You have expressed as much yourself. Unless this was untrue….”

There was no reply.

“He will not, will never, become a Great Sage,” the deeper voice continued, “Nothing can convince me otherwise.”

“He is only eleven, Your Majesty. We cannot…can-can his fate really be determined at so young-” the voice broke off, and even Gascon drew back in anticipation of the reply.

“I had full control of my magical abilities by his age. My decision is final.”

A new silence fell upon the three, though had the speakers within uttered another sound, there was little chance Gascon would have caught it. He sucked in a deep breath as if it was his very last before being enveloped in rising floodwaters, only to clamp his jaw shut, lest any further noise escape him. His heart hammered within his chest with a fervor that put its earlier pace to shame, and he managed to reign in racing thoughts just in time to realize the discussion had not yet come to an end.

“It was…” a soft voice began, the words trembling, “it’s been an honor and a pleasure to serve your household, Your Majesty. If you are ever in need of my services again—”

“I will contact you, yes. You have served our family well. Rest assured your dismissal is not for lack of effort.”

No answer could be heard in return, and a small part of him wondered if perhaps he had gotten it all wrong. Perhaps he had stumbled upon a conversation between two entirely different people, who had come to discuss _anything_ else.

The prince stiffened when the sound of soft-soled boots shuffling across the hard floor met his ears, already so close, escape seemed an impossibility. He pressed his back further into the wall and willed the shadows to obscure him as a figure emerged through the doorway, a man whose thin face was trying very hard to convey relative youth but was betrayed by a single grey hair at his right temple. Even magic couldn’t defend against aging forever.

The man’s pale eyes locked onto the boy’s dark ones, the former’s lips quivering as they parted to express some sign of his surprise. The prince shook his head, and the other closed his mouth without a sound being made.

“Gascon…”

Their heads swiveled as one, as if their eyes had been pulled back to the room beyond by an invisible string. The fact that one side of the double doors was now open fully served little to make it more inviting.

“You’ve waited out there long enough. Now come in.”

Gascon remained frozen to the spot, and when his eyes dared leave the door to venture back to the man standing beside him, all he received was an apologetic smile in return. His gaze fell away, and with no further delay than a deep breath to calm his nerves, he turned to obey the summons.

His father’s audience room was in the usual style of the palace of Hamelin, though it always made the prince feel cold, colder than all the massive rooms of metal and tile that felt far too large for their own good. And that said nothing of when his father was in it.

The Emperor of Hamelin needed no introduction, for none could have mistaken him for anyone less. Unlike his eldest son, wearing the rags of poverty would have fooled no one, for he stood with a regal bearing that would make a lion look like an oversized tomcat in comparison. Gascon winced as he was met with hard eyes that had never once softened in all his recollections of his father.

“You shouldn’t eavesdrop, or you might hear things you won’t like.”

The prince hooked the index fingers of both hands behind his back and ran his tongue over his lips, though it brought no relief when both were dry. “I-I wasn’t,” he told the far corner of the room, but said no more once he decided further defense was futile.

“And yet, somehow you heard it all, haven’t you? I can see it in your face. You know as well as I that you will never be able to wield magic. Further waiting around was pointless.”

“I tried. You think I didn’t, but I—”

“Am I not correct?”

Gascon returned his arms to his sides when his father tucked his own hands behind his back, for it was clear who would win in a competition of similar stances. “I could have, maybe, if you’d cared enough to give me a proper chance—”

“Can you so much as light a candle without the aid of a match? Could you, if even your very life depended on it, heal a wound?” His father’s voice boomed, and in case volume alone didn’t do the trick, his tone, too, was enough to still the prince’s tongue and cause clenched fists to go slack. “Even if you had cared,” he paused, “to spend as much time studying as you do staring dreamy-eyed out windows, you will never possess so much as a spark of magic. Denying it won’t do you any good. Now is this the truth or isn’t it?”

The boy swallowed at the lump that had formed in his throat, and he was compelled to provide an answer when his father’s eyebrows leapt upon his forehead. The prince inclined his head in a sullen nod.

“When I ask you a question, I expect a spoken answer. Now speak!”

Gascon’s lips worked to force out a response, but only empty air came forth, until, with a choke, he said, “Y-yes, but…” he tried licking his lips again, with no more success than the first time, “but did you…did you _really_ have to say all that to my teacher?”

The Emperor chuckled, though if it had contained any hint of humor, the boy couldn’t find it. “He certainly would have known once I had dismissed him, would he not? As if he wasn’t already aware of the matter. I won’t mince words for your own comfort, Gascon.”

As if afflicted by some sudden exhaustion, his father bowed his head, a sigh escaping him as he rubbed his forehead with one hand. The prince tensed as he awaited the man’s next words, only to stare in befuddlement when his father removed the sword he always kept at his belt and held it in both hands before him. Its gilded scabbard was elaborately decorated, a visible sign of the man’s power that ensured his position as one of the four Great Sages and Emperor of Hamelin would never be forgotten.

“My son,” the Emperor said, his voice mild, but no less commanding, “I have long meant to pass this on to you one day, when you were grown. And yet,” his hard eyes closed for the briefest of seconds, “I find it all the more vital I entrust it to you now. If you can’t protect yourself with magic, at least you will have this.”

Born of pure reflex and the unspoken knowledge that this was no time to disobey, Gascon took the blade offered him without looking at it. His eyes remained instead on the face of his father, parted lips unable to close, for there were countless questions they yearned to ask, but he picked just one to voice.

“What happens…if Marcassin learns to use magic?”

The Emperor laughed and slapped a large hand down on his son’s shoulder. “I should think you already know the answer to that question by now. If your brother does indeed show promise as a Great Sage, you would need to find yourself a new role to play within the empire. Everyone must find a way to be useful. That is the Hamelin way, after all.”


	3. Unintended Magic

Strangely enough, it seemed that nightmares were the only thing that could motivate Marcassin to brave the corridors after the gaslights had been put out, the only manner in which the residents of the palace could distinguish between night and day when the city outside had no sky to speak of. For an untold number of consecutive nights, as Gascon had given up counting sometime after the first two weeks, the elder prince was woken by a frantic pounding on his bedroom door. The time range in which this happened was not important, only that it happened.

With what he hoped was a thoroughly put-upon groan, even if there was no one about to hear it, Gascon rolled onto his stomach and pressed his face into his pillow. He was still of the relaxed boneless quality of one yet to have fully left the world of dreams, and in such a half-asleep state, he reasoned that lack of bones would be a poor time to leave the comfort of a warm bed and goose down pillows. Right now, in fact, he felt more akin to a slug than a boy anyway, and hard floors just didn’t interest him at the moment.

A sigh attempted to escape him when the pounding at his door subsided, but it went nowhere when the pillow hindered its progress. Remembering that even slugs needed oxygen, or so he assumed, Gascon squirmed about in the tangle of sheets he had become ensnared in. Without bothering to open his eyes, he tugged at the offending corner of the blankets until the leg that had become confined was free, only to go still again once the discomfort had been corrected.

Sleep was hardly given a chance to reclaim him, however, for a new sound began out in the hallway, a wail with the hint of a name hidden inside it. Deciding he was only prolonging the inevitable, Gascon pressed the palm of one hand against the mattress to hoist himself out of bed, and he shivered in his pajamas as the cold air took this opportunity to nip at him.

By the time he opened the door to stare down at the culprit, his younger brother was still breathing heavily, his face red with tears.

Gascon rubbed his forehead, an act that only succeeded in flattening his hair down over one eye. “Another one?”

Marcassin continued to sniff, and he moved his head up and down in several exaggerated nods. “Uh-hmm.”

“What was it _this_ time?”

The young child began to whimper more than ever, and he choked on his next words nearly to incomprehension. “I-it wa-as just s-scary!”

“Well, at least stop crying. It’s over now. And you can’t keep waking me up every night, you know. Everyone gets bad dreams, but that’s no excuse to run screaming through the hallways.”

Marcassin wiped the tears from his right eye with his sleeve as he continued in jerky syllables, “How e-else c-can I ma-make you wake up?”

“Well, do you want to tell me about it?” Gascon asked as he brushed his hair out of his face.

“I d-don’t know.”

“Then, what do you want me to do?”

“I don’t know.” The child sniffed, but made no sign he had anything further to say.

Gascon huffed. “Look, if you’re not going to tell me anything, you may as well go back to bed. I’m certainly not going to spend the rest of the night staring at you. If it makes you feel any better, I can walk you back to your room. Okay?”

Marcassin’s red-rimmed eyes widened. “But, the monsters might have snuck back in.”

“Then, I’ll just have to scare them away again, won’t I?”

Receiving no reply besides a wordless stare, Gascon stepped around the child with a roll of his eyes. Without once looking back, he proceeded to stride down the dark corridor and was rewarded with the pattering of bare feet as his brother darted after him. Neither said a word as they walked down the empty hallway even the guards rarely patrolled, though Gascon wondered if it would bring his brother any comfort if they did. The clatter of metal boots, he had to admit, was a bit disconcerting to hear in the middle of the night when one was not expecting it. What he was doing roaming the palace at such an hour was another story and one he was not sharing.

By the time they reached the door to Marcassin’s chambers, the child’s round cheeks retained only a fading blush from his earlier display. Pausing before the double doors, the two brothers exchanged silent nods. Gascon entered the room first, while his brother continued to linger in the doorway, where he could maintain a safe distance with his bed in full view to confirm his elder brother performed the ritual correctly.

The official monster-tamer took up a nearby lantern, still lit thanks to the child’s insistence that he couldn’t sleep otherwise and began to peer under the bed from all angles. He was forced to start over when he was reminded that the monsters would only be frightened off if he started from the wall and went counterclockwise. (It confused them, Gascon had said, though he hadn’t realized this would inspire a suspicion of clocks until he had convinced the child that the two were in no way related.)

Once he was certain nothing unsavory lurked underneath Marcassin’s bed, or in the wardrobe, behind the curtains, or beneath the pillows, he beckoned for his brother to join him with a wave of his arm.

"I didn't find anything,” Gascon said, his head held high with the certainty of these words. “You have nothing to worry about.”

The child shuffled into the room and cast an uneasy eye at the nearest dark corner. “What if they come in while I’m sleeping?”

“They can’t. Most monsters don’t even have thumbs, so they aren’t able to open doors and windows.”

“What about the ones that _do_ have—”

“Just get in bed.”

Marcassin did as he was told, though he hardly delved any deeper beneath the blankets than his stomach until a stern glance from Gascon sent him sliding under the rest of the way. With a firm nod of approval, the elder brother made for the hallway, only to pause in the doorway.

“Try to get some sleep, okay?” he said over his shoulder.

The child made a slow nod. “‘K-kay… Good…good night, Gascon.”

“Night.”

Gascon closed the door behind him and began the journey back to his own room. The long corridor seemed even colder than the room he had just left, and it was only the lights from the city beyond, what little was able to make it through the high windows, at least, that were available to provide sparse illumination, but certainly not enough to breach the shadows that gathered overhead and obscured the ceiling as if there was none at all.

Sometimes he would have preferred it that way, for he had heard that outside the city, the sky filled with stars whenever night fell. He had heard it was like staring up at a million glittering gems, that you could never truly feel alone in this world, no matter how big it was, because you could always see those stars at night gazing right back down at you. That’s what he had heard, but he couldn’t possibly know if it was true. There were no stars in Hamelin.

He would sleep beneath the stars someday, even if only once.

Gascon’s reverie was interrupted when he felt something heavy pounce on his back, and he wobbled on his feet in his efforts to steady himself under a very real burden that had not been there mere moments ago.

“Get _off_ me!”

“Give me a piggyback ride, Gascon,” a familiar voice said over his right shoulder. “ _Please_? Just like you used to!”

The elder prince nearly choked thanks to the arms wrapped around his neck. “You’re getting too heavy! Seriously, let go!” As if to prove his point, his whole stance began to sink until his knees met the floor. The weight disappeared, and Marcassin arrived into view a moment later.

“Sorry, Gascon.”

“You were supposed to _stay_ in bed this time,” Gascon said, though he made no effort to stand, lest he be tackled again. “Don’t tell me you already had another bad dream.”

The child shook his head. “No. I can’t sleep at _all_. Can I stay in your room for a while?”

Gascon stared up in silence at his younger brother, but rather than ask how several minutes was enough time to confirm that one would be unable to fall asleep, he merely rose to his feet with a shake of the head and continued down the corridor with a mumbled request to follow. He didn’t need to look over to know that his brother had fallen in line beside him, and once they arrived inside the room in question, Marcassin took no delay in climbing onto the bed, where his short legs proceeded to dangle, with no hope of reaching the floor. For a good many years, at least.

Gascon, on the other hand, found his own seat in the form of a wooden chair with red cushions that had been left in the corner, the very one his mother had used when she had tended to him all throughout a bad case of the flu when he was about Marcassin’s age. Any who hadn’t already known would have had trouble believing in that moment that she was the Empress of Hamelin. How it had managed to remain here for so long, he wasn’t certain, but seeing as it had already occupied that spot for this many years, he saw no reason to move it now. It clomped in an awkward fashion as he attempted to drag it across the floor, and he gave up when he had succeeded in bringing it as close to the bed as he deemed necessary.

The younger prince continued to watch the elder in an expectant stillness as he absently went about curling and uncurling the toes of one foot. Gascon cleared his throat, but rather than speak, he directed his focus instead on anchoring his feet upon the floor to aid in lifting himself out of the slouch he had taken up just as soon as he had sat down.

“So…” he began, “are you going to tell me what your dream was about or not?”

Marcassin’s hands grasped each other in his lap, and he shook his head.

Gascon gnawed on his lower lip and tried again. “Well, what…what do you think’s bothering you _this_ time? You haven’t had this many nightmares since-” his words faltered, “since Mother.”

The child stared at the floor in deep consideration, his eyebrows knitted with the effort he put into it. When his answer arrived, he looked back up. “I’m…I’m probably just scared of the dark.”

The elder prince shook his head, both hands grasping the edge of his seat. “No, that’s not it. You should be getting _less_ afraid of the dark by now, not more.”

“I’ve _always_ been afraid of it, though.”

“But, you don’t always have nightmares, now do you?”

Marcassin kicked his feet and shrugged. “Just little ones.”

Gascon planted his forehead in both hands with a groan. “Then, what could it possibly be? I can’t help you if you don’t tell me what your dream was about.”

By now, his younger brother had taken to wriggling the toes of both feet as he proceeded to stare down at them with a suspicious fascination.

“Marcassin, _Marcassin_ , you’re not even listening!” Gascon said, and though the child’s head gave a jerk at the mention of his name, it seemed the focus on his feet only doubled.

The elder prince rose from his seat to join his brother on the edge of the bed. He couldn’t say he would receive any better results over here, but if he wasn’t allowed to get any rest tonight, at least this was the closest he could come to it.

Marcassin looked over. “Are there any games we can play?”

Gascon yawned and rubbed his eyes. “I don’t feel like playing any games right now.”

The child straightened as a smile sprouted without warning upon his face. “I know, maybe you could teach me chess. Father tried to, but I didn’t understand it. I bet you’d be—”

With a groan, Gascon fell back onto the bed and laid there with his arms sprawled wherever they had ended up. “Chess is a stupid game.” There were simply too many rules, a fact that very well might account for his inability to have ever won.

Marcassin’s face fell, and he returned to staring at his feet. “Gascon…”

“What?”

“What was…Mummy like?”

Gascon stiffened. “What’s that have to do with anything?”

“N-nothing, I…I was just wondering…”

The elder prince stared, unblinking, at the canopy above them, its shape uncertain in the gloom, like a dark shadow looming overhead. It had always made him feel rather claustrophobic, even if one of the maids was always insisting that it was the only kind of bed suited for royalty. He really ought to consider trading with her one of these days. “Don’t worry, I’m sure you were Mother’s favorite, too. Is that what you wanted to hear?”

A heavy silence fell over the pair, a stifling sort of quiet that gave no peace, but added to the cold that enveloped the room, only to grow colder still when it was broken. The interruption started off soft, nearly inaudible, and he had to wonder if it was all just his imagination, until Marcassin burst into sobs that eclipsed his earlier tears.

Gascon shot upright as the child’s small body shook, with no signs of stopping. “Hey, M-Marcassin,” he began, his mouth working to form the proper words around a tongue that had suddenly gone numb, “I’m…I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that!”

Marcassin choked and hiccupped, and it was impossible to say at first if the noises he made were attempts at speech or gasps until some meaning managed to force its way through. “Y-you d…d-don’t like m-e, do-do you, Gascon?”

“That’s…that’s not it at all! I like you just fine! You’re my brother. Just please stop crying, okay?”

The child lifted a hand to his nose, but made no effort to rub at his face. “Then, y-you’re _go-ing_ to h…hate me, I kn-know it! You-you’ll be m-mad at me!”

Gascon opened his mouth, but found he had no words to say until he was provided with some elaboration that would shed further meaning upon his brother’s statements. He received none.

“Wh…what are you talking about?”

Marcassin sucked air into his heaving chest and lifted a single, shaky hand overhead with a curious amount of gravity. The seeming mystery of the gesture compelled Gascon to stare, unblinking, at it, as if he expected it to divulge the answers. With only a moment’s more hesitation, the child gave his arm an unsteady wave, and that was all it took.

He jerked back as the lantern on his night table burst ablaze, seemingly of its own accord. His eyes pressed closed as if they wished to retreat from the baffling sight, but when he opened them again, a bright orange flame continued to dance within the confines of the lantern where before there had been none. Its glow pushed back the darkness and reflected off the table’s polished surface, just as real as if it had been created by more conventional means.

When he turned back to his brother, the child’s tears had ceased, but the sheen they left as they dried still graced his cheeks. Marcassin’s mouth remained open just partly, his eyes round and expectant, and in his pupils, the flame had split in two, one for each, and Gascon knew this could not be some trick from lack of sleep. A wave of cold washed over him, as if ice had settled within his veins, constricting his chest and numbing his very mind with its chill.

“You…can use magic,” he said, his words barely audible. He licked his lips, expecting something to happen in the pause that followed, something, anything, befitting such a revelation. But the room remained just as silent, just as cold. “How long…” he continued, “how long have you known?”

A shuddering breath attempted to break free, but Marcassin just managed to pull it back before it could pass his lips. His words, too, were a whisper. “Do you hate me?”

“No, I-why…why would you think that?”

“B-because…” the child drew in a sniff, “because I’m not supposed to.” He rubbed his nose. “I’m not supposed to use magic. You are. I…I d-didn’t mean to.”

“Marcassin, we…” Gascon swallowed. He always knew this day would come. “We have to tell Father.”

“No, no, you can’t-” Marcassin attempted to jump to his feet, but was held in place when his brother grabbed him by the arms. “No, Gascon-” he tried to struggle, but the grip upon him remained firm.

“We _have_ to. This is important, and…” He bowed his head, his voice dropping, as well. “I-I know it’s scary. I’ve spent my whole life worrying about…how I could never manage ruling an empire. But, the more time you have to prepare, the better. Right?”

When he looked up again, Marcassin’s eyes were wider than he had ever seen them, and they bored into his own until it took all of his willpower not to look away. “ _Right_?” he repeated and gave his brother a gentle shake. “Quit staring at me. I’m almost worried you’ve forgotten how to talk.”

The child’s nod was unconvincing, but at least it was an answer. “But, Gascon,” Marcassin’s voice shook, “wh-what happens to _you_?”

Gascon released him. “Don’t you worry about me. If you’re afraid to tell Father, I’ll…I’ll help you train. I think I’ve learned some useful things from my old magic teacher, and once you’re ready, then we’ll talk to him together. Okay? Everything will be fine, I promise.” He forced his mouth into a smile. “I keep my promises, don’t I?”

One corner of Marcassin’s lips lifted in half a grin of his own, and he threw his arms around his brother’s neck in a sudden embrace. While the eldest was slow to respond, at first, he eventually did so thanks to a practice in such things all older siblings were forced to endure.

“It’ll just be our little secret,” Gascon said, and he felt his brother nod in his chest, paired with a muffled “mm-hmm” in the affirmative.

“Gascon,” Marcassin turned his head to the side to better aid in proper speaking, “who comforts you when _you_ get bad dreams?”

Gascon pushed his brother from him by the arms and considered him with the most serious expression he could muster. “Well, it would be impossible for me to answer that question because I don’t get bad dreams.”

“Never?” his brother asked, and Gascon shook his head as the traces of a smirk crept across his lips.

“Never,” he repeated. “Now, are you finally ready to leave me alone and go to bed or do I need to carry you out of here kicking and screaming?”

Marcassin nodded in all earnest, and he grabbed Gascon by the hand for the return to his room and a bedtime long put off. It was lost to him, however, that his brother’s smirk had since vanished from his face and his grip was lacking the strength a big brother should rightly have. For Gascon’s mind had acquired a few too many things to ponder over during the course of their talks. Dreams were one thing, the good and the bad.

The real question was, who was there to comfort him during his waking hours?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Piggyback ride. Puns, I guess. Also, I love writing family relationships, especially siblings. Even if Gascon can be a rather crabby big brother.


	4. The Two Sides of Hamelin

Their training began five months ago with inanimate objects. Lighting candles had, naturally, led to entire chandeliers. Once he had mastered this ability, Marcassin’s next test involved cooking various items Gascon had “liberated” from the palace kitchens, including a raw apple pie whose edges were rather singed once the child was through with it. It tasted just fine, otherwise.

After a time, however, it became rather difficult to explain the strange occurrences that resulted from their practice sessions, such as how they had become so wet when neither were anywhere near a bathtub or the courtyard fountain. It was just fortunate no one had heard the thunder.

And so, out of necessity, and to ensure Marcassin was provided the proper level of challenge, they had taken their training outside the city, where they could practice far from the prying eyes of soldiers and maids alike, the latter of which posed a double threat thanks to their habit of asking far more questions than was good for them.

Today, he had dubbed his younger brother ready to take on moving targets, namely the decrepit old automata that continued to roam the barren plains since ages past. He had learned quite quickly that he had spoken too soon, however, when he was lifted into the air by one leg, courtesy of a rather large robot that had managed, despite all its creaking, to sneak up on him. Fortunately, Marcassin had freed him with a well-aimed lightning bolt, though his head still ached where he had landed on it.

They had returned to Hamelin dusty and bruised, though Gascon had somehow managed to incur most of the machines’ wrath, even when he was certain they had no way of knowing that he, and not his magic-wielding brother, was the true instigator of their mistreatment. At least their ragged appearance only served to enhance their disguises. Before leaving the palace, the elder prince had dressed in the usual simple clothing he always wore during his outings into the city, and he had insisted his younger brother wear the spare set he had managed to conjure up from his earlier days as a part-time commoner. They were still just a tad too large, but he believed this discrepancy would only add to that certain impoverished look he was going for.

When questioned on _why_ he preferred they wore such threadbare clothing when they had “perfectly good stuff” back home, Gascon had attempted to explain that this was the only way they could be treated like normal people by the folks that rushed about in endless hurry about them. He had even less luck making the child grasp exactly _how_ this treatment was any different from what it would be otherwise or why they weren’t normal. (Such a rough appearance also made it easier to come and go through the black market, but Marcassin didn’t need to know _that_ part of it.)

The pair hadn’t wandered very far into the bustling streets of the city of steel and smoke when Marcassin grasped the end of his brother’s coat sleeve. “Gascon, I was wondering—”

Gascon stopped in his tracks and turned to face him without delay. “Not so loud. People will hear you.”

The child’s mouth remained open to make way for words he had yet to utter, and then he tried again in hushed tones, “Gascon—”

“That’s not how I meant it! You can talk in a normal voice. Just don’t use our names, okay? Why do you think we’re dressed like this,” the elder prince indicated his less than princely attire with a downward sweep of his arms, “if you’re just going to announce who we are to the whole city?”

Marcassin considered this. “I’m sorry, Ga-ah, I-I didn’t think anyone was listening.”

Gascon shook his head with an exasperated sigh to make it quite clear just how impossible his younger brother was being. “That’s the problem, you don’t _think_ anyone’s eavesdropping, but would you really know if they _were_?”

The child turned to eye the crowd in suspicion. “No?”

The elder brother gave a sagely nod. “Exactly. I’ve been exploring this city since you were still a baby. You learn a thing or two about a thing or two.”

When Marcassin turned back to him, his words flowed with renewed determination, “That’s what I wanted to ask you about. Could you show me around the city? I bet you know all about it.”

Gascon brought a hand to his chin. “That _is_ true,” he said with a growing smirk. “All right,” he continued with a nod, as if just now reaching a decision he had put a great deal of thought into. “I’ll give you a tour. I’ll show you places in Hamelin you never even dreamed existed.”

Marcassin nearly leapt into the air at this news. “Hooray! Thanks, Ga- I almost did it again…”

“You better be careful, or else everyone’s going to feel awfully silly they haven’t been heaping praises on us. That’s why we have to lay low like this. Frankly, it would all be too much trouble otherwise.”

The younger prince stared up at him. “They wouldn’t really do that, would they?”

Gascon couldn’t prevent the escape of a single snort of laughter. “No, but no more silly questions. Come on,” he added with a sweep of one arm, and with that, he turned away and began to head down the nearest street, pausing once to spare a single glance backwards. “And stay close. I mean it.”

* * *

Marcassin did stay close, too much so at times, as he was granted his own personal tour of the city even those of royal blood were scarcely afforded. They never strayed from the main thoroughfares with their father, and even then, their view was from ten feet off the street, and they were surrounded by enough soldiers that it was impossible to feel like any more than a distant observer of what went on below. To say the Royal Family lived in Hamelin was a blatant lie. Their world was the palace, the city outside a wilderness they remained wholly separate from.

Gascon had seen things during his outings that had shocked him years ago, that continued to horrify him to this day. He had begun these excursions back when he was but eight and the call of what lay beyond the palace walls had grown too inviting to ignore. Still young and largely innocent, despite what his nursemaid would say, it had been no small feat for the young prince to wrap his head around the newly discovered reality that the city he gazed out at every day, which seemed to gleam back at him with untold splendor, was so much darker and stained once he got up close to it. His father had never told him how great the differences between themselves and the people they ruled were. He had never given his eldest son any reason to question the pedestal on which they rested, had he known at the time one existed.

But he knew now. He now understood more fully a world that was not so simple, so black and white, as what his young mind had once believed. And yet, even now, after years spent marauding about those very streets he had once dreamed of visiting, he understood that he was still, and always would be, an observer and nothing more. He didn’t have to like it, but the order of things was what it was, and he knew he must never touch it. It was dangerous for one who hailed from such a foreign existence to try and influence this one. Leave that to those who were born to it.

The ice cream cones they had purchased had already undergone a great deal of change since they had first come into their possessions. In fact, Gascon’s was gone entirely, while his younger brother had managed somehow to prevent his ice cream from lapsing beyond a sad pile of mush that just barely rose above the rim of the nibbled cone. If Marcassin was using some kind of ice spell to prevent his treat from being reduced to an outright puddle, when it had no right being anything but by now, he had no way of knowing. His suspicions were only assuaged when he recalled his brother’s ability to make lollipops and bubble gum last for hours on end, as well. Or perhaps, on second thought, it had always been magic.

By now, their stroll had taken them into one of Hamelin’s many back alleys. Gascon found they allowed for far easier passage than the busy streets, even if they also possessed a unique disadvantage that made their use a risky endeavor.

Marcassin fumbled with his ice cream cone in a hurried effort to switch it to his other hand and only succeeded in dropping it as he clutched at his brother’s sleeve with fingers sticky with sugar.

“Gascon, look there!” the child said under his breath, his words coming out in a pitch uncommon even for one of his size.

Such blatant instructions had never been necessary, however, for just before Marcassin had uttered them, Gascon’s ears had picked up on a sound too hurried for the normally slow and forgotten alleys of Hamelin. It was only when people remembered these passages that one ran into trouble. His breath caught in his throat when his attention fell on a wiry man and a young woman struggling over a small handbag in the shadowy corner where the alley made a sharp turn.

He clutched his younger brother by the shoulders and attempted to push him back the way they had come, whether or not he was facing it. “Let’s get out of here. Move!”

“No, we gotta do something! We gotta help her!” The child struggled in his brother’s grip until, with a renewed burst of energy, he broke free and began a shambling run towards the pair.

Gascon attempted to pursue him, but his reflexes proved too slow, and he froze once it settled within him like a rock that he would be unable to stop him before the child could attract their notice. Marcassin jerked to a stop a short distance before them, as if he had lost the nerve to draw any closer, and his small frame stiffened when the man turned a cold gaze his way.

“Need somethin’, kid?” the thief said in a low growl, his eyes squinting in a manner that suggested he was in dire need of eyeglasses. Based on the color of his teeth and the sheen of his dark hair, it seemed he was in even greater need of a number of other things, as well.

Marcassin drew in a shuddering breath. “L-leave her alone,” he said and attempted to draw himself up to his full, if minor, height. It made no noticeable difference.

The thief made a slow turn in the boy’s direction with a complete lack of anything that could be mistaken for urgency, while the woman withdrew into the corner as if she expected to hide within the shadows, her handbag clutched to her chest with such an intense grip, this whole matter could have surely been avoided, if only she had possessed it earlier. “Unless you got a bloody good reason,” the man said in a slow drawl, “I suggest you scram!”

Marcassin lifted his chin high and tightened the fists at his sides. “You won’t g-get away with this because…because I’m Prince Marcassin, and my Father will put you in jail!” Gascon would have slapped a hand to his forehead if the situation had been any less dire.

The man barked out a rough laugh, displaying several missing teeth, though such amusement failed to soften his expression. With her opening spotted, the woman bolted past him with only a fleeting glance spared their way. So much for gratitude, Gascon thought, and he rushed forward to join his brother.

A nervous laugh slipped free as he tugged Marcassin behind him, grateful he was met with no resistance this time. “E-excuse my kid brother. He daydreams too much for his own good. He’s no more a prince than I’m the Dark Djinn.” Gascon laughed again just as a twisted smirk began to snake its way over the man’s thin lips.

The prince shuffled backwards as the thief advanced towards them in slow footfalls. “Get ready to run,” he told his brother under bated breath, but before they had an opportunity to do just that, he was held fast when the child threw his arms about his torso in an embrace that prevented any such movement. A quick glance backwards was all the explanation he needed, and he gasped as he caught sight of another pair of men emerging from the shadows to block them in.

Marcassin whimpered into his stomach, and Gascon turned back to the leader, a fierce glint flashing in his eyes, if only to hide what he didn’t wish to be seen. “What do you blighters want? I’ve already bloody told you—”

The thief shook a bony finger at him, his smile only growing in strength. “Such coarse language for a prince. Oh, my apologies,” the man pressed a hand to his chest, his spidery fingers splayed, “I nearly forgot. I should call you both ‘your ‘ighness’, shouldn’t I?” He bowed low to a dissonant chorus of sniggers, and Marcassin squeezed his brother ever more tightly in his arms. Gascon hugged him back.

When the man rose again, he stood tall, drinking in the amusement of his comrades like a performer on a stage before he returned to studying the pair before him, his glassy eyes gleaming with a twinkle of an idea they hadn’t possessed before. He rubbed the tips of a thumb and forefinger together as he continued, “Ya know, I wonder ‘ow many guilders our mighty Emperor would be willing to part with to see these two again.”

“I wouldn’ pay for ‘em,” came a throaty voice from behind the boys in question.

The leader shrugged. “Well, it can’t ‘urt to try.” He chuckled. “Nothin’ tried, nothin’ gained, am I right?”

As if on some unspoken cue, Marcassin squealed as he was yanked from his brother’s grip. “Gascon! Gascon, help!” the child said, and he kicked and squirmed as he was lifted bodily by two arms around his stomach.

Gascon lunged for him, but his path was barred as a man twice his size stepped in front of him. “Fight back, Marcassin!” he said. “You remember what I taught you! Fight back!”

The elder prince jerked backwards with a yelp as the man blocking his path grabbed him by the arm, and he just managed to worm his way out of his coat before the man could get a better grip on him. His freedom was short-lived, however, and it lasted just long enough for him to be bashed over the head a moment later with something hard from behind. The world spun, and Gascon fell bodily to the ground as an empty bottle landed with a clatter beside him. He groaned and tried to lift himself to his feet as his brother called his name, but such movement only caused the ground to lurch beneath his dazed senses all the more.

Time felt as if it had slowed to a crawl, and his thoughts and movements with it. All he could do was kneel there, with his hands upon the cold, rough ground for support, blinking as he willed the spots in his vision to depart from him. It was almost as if his very breath, his heart, his life, as well, had ceased to flow in those long moments. Until everything began to rush forward again with so little warning, it took his mind several moments to comprehend the fact that another noise had arrived to join the din, a metallic clattering that flooded his heart with overpowering relief before he even recalled where he had heard it before.

Commanding voices replaced his brother’s cries and made short work of quenching the gruff protests that rose up in return as Gascon was hauled to his feet by two hands under his arms. He pressed his eyes shut once more, and when he opened them again, his blurred vision cleared just in time to catch a retreating figure rounding the corner many yards down the alley with a head start and an unnatural speed few would have success eclipsing. Mind reeling, all he could acknowledge was that the other two had not been so lucky, only this detail and nothing more.

Marcassin approached his older brother on shaky legs and hugged him tight without warning, in silent gratitude for being able to do so. Neither spoke as the soldiers escorted them back to the palace, and when they exchanged brief glances, it was clear one more trial would have to be faced before the day could come to an end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that, Marcassin, my dear, is why you listen to your big brother. Except for the fact that he shouldn't have taken you outside the palace to begin with...


	5. No Son of Mine

When the two brothers were brought before their father in the palace library, Gascon felt as if _they_ were the criminals and not the men they had so recently been rescued from, though he couldn’t say how much of this guilt was simply due to being in the man’s presence and how much of it had already been there to begin with.

While relief should have been the overwhelming factor at play right now after having so narrowly avoided calamity, all he felt was a gnawing sickness deep in the pit of his stomach. To be honest, he felt this way every time he was made to see his father anymore, and the urge to run was even stronger today than it usually was. Lately, and with a growing frequency, he wished to run from the palace and never look back. If it hadn’t been for Marcassin…

The Emperor had not once looked their way since their arrival, had not once acknowledged their existence even when the captain of the Royal Guard had divulged the news of the princes’ discovery. That man had since left them. Gascon found himself rubbing his thumb along the fingers of his right hand, a hardly worthy distraction as their father’s attention remained steadfast upon the crackling fireplace that was the room’s centerpiece, as if that was a far more engaging use of his time than what he would find once he turned around. In fact, their view consisted of no more than his back and the arms he had tucked behind himself, a closed invitation to speak without express permission. If only it didn’t have to end, the elder prince could possibly learn to live with this new arrangement.

“This morning, I was informed that both of you had been discovered missing from the palace.”

The two brothers straightened to attention. Their father’s voice was low, his words calm, but a dangerous edge was there that Gascon knew all too well. The man’s gaze remained on the dancing flames upon the hearth as he continued, volume growing, “And when I hear word that you’ve been found at last, it is four hours later and due only to the commotion you had both been caught in the midst of.”

Gascon thought he caught his brother flinch out of the corner of his eye as their father’s voice boomed, and as soon as the man turned around, the elder prince felt his very being wither beneath the hardness of the man’s eyes, as unyielding as diamonds and as sharp as the most finely honed blade. Sharper. Never before had anyone stood before that gaze and won.

“Whose fool idea was it to go wandering outside the palace without permission?”

Neither said a word, but the way Marcassin hung his head and Gascon’s eyes had turned to studying every line and curve of the ornately detailed fireplace was enough to give away any guilt as if they had announced it to the fanfare of drums and trumpets.

The Emperor’s gaze swept across them, lingering on Gascon longest of all. He swallowed at the attention and resisted the urge to meet his gaze. Even if their father’s focus had only considered him for a moment, Marcassin began to squirm under the weight of the room’s very silence, and Gascon just caught the whisper of words, but not their meanings.

“Speak up!”

The child’s head jerked up at the command. “It-it was my idea. I just…I just wanted to see the city. It wasn’t Gascon’s fault, Father. I _asked_ him, and-and they were bad people, and—”

“Enough.”

Marcassin’s jaw clamped shut, his mouth only opening once more to take his first breath since those words had burst forth from his lips.

“And by what authority,” their father went on, “does _Gascon_ have to give you a tour of our fine city, hmm? And I’m sure the outfits were just something you had lying around?”

The child stammered over a response he had yet to create, but he was rescued from having to form any actual words when Gascon spoke up over him. “It was…it was my idea actually. Marcassin did ask…to…to look around, but we were already out to begin with. The clothes were only to avoid,” he faltered, and his gaze fell, “to avoid being noticed.”

“And yet, that didn’t seem to keep you out of trouble, now did it?” The Emperor paused to fix them in a gaze that could freeze fire, if only he gave the command. “And, thus far, I have yet to hear any _good_ reason as to why you felt the need to wander off and risk your own safety.”

The elder prince glanced over at his brother. Their eyes met, an unspoken question traveling between them. There was no other way around it. Gascon frowned a silent apology and turned back to their father.

“You see, the thing is,” he began, doing his best to ignore the wide-eyed stare Marcassin was directing his way, “Marcassin…he-he can use magic, and I was just helping him practice.”

Their father didn’t respond right away, but merely turned to study his youngest son as if he could confirm this statement by mere looks alone. “Is this true?” the Emperor asked.

Marcassin sent a plaintive glance at his brother before bobbing his head in a meek nod.

“Then show me.”

The child’s eyes grew wider still, and his gaze jumped between the two in such a way that he bore an odd resemblance to a rabbit caught between two predators.

“It’s all right, Marcassin,” Gascon said. “Just show him what I taught you.”

Marcassin attempted to stand as tall as his small frame would allow and closed his eyes, the picture of concentration. They turned to watch the fireplace as the flames within began to shrink with almost tangible protest, withdrawing into itself as if some unfelt wind was competing for control of the hearth. The fire shuddered against the spell working to push it down, and it only receded the smallest fraction more before it burst from its invisible constraints, just as strong as it had been before the child had first attempted to influence it. Marcassin opened his eyes to witness the results of his efforts and, upon confirming them, turned away to chew on his lower lip.

“I see,” was their father’s only response.

Gascon sighed. “I swear he can do better than that. But, that’s why we’ve been practicing, so—”

“Why is it that you did not come to me first?”

“B-because we…uh…” the elder prince began, but trailed off when he could find no reason that would ease their father’s judgement.

“Had you been a suitable choice for teaching _anyone_ magic, Gascon, that is still no excuse for disobeying me. Both of you should know by now that you are not allowed to leave the palace alone. I just hope your ordeal today will be more effective motivation to obey my commands. Marcassin, you are dismissed.”

Gascon tensed, and the two brothers exchanged frantic stares. For once, that was an order he would have been more than happy to be included in.

Marcassin opened and closed his mouth several times before he settled for clamping it shut and leaving it that way. He met his elder brother’s eyes in a look of utter horror, an apology for whatever he was leaving him to, but the flicker of a glance in their father’s direction was enough to send him for the door in a stiff march. He jerked to a halt when the Emperor spoke up once more.

“And go change into something less befitting a beggar. You will have those clothes burned. Do you understand me?”

The child remained rooted to the spot at the harshness in which these words were spoken, the rigidity of his stance no doubt responsible for his lack of an answer. And then, as if from some unseen push, he lurched forward again, his pace increasing in speed as he went. His footfalls echoed on the hard floor, the only sound as they awaited his exit, until the door closed behind him with frightening finality. If his younger brother had provided even just an ounce of comfort, it was an empty feeling indeed to stand here without it. Just like that, his father’s height had doubled, his eyes gleaming like roaring flames without any of the warmth.

“I…I don’t understand,” the elder prince turned back to his father, “why can’t I—”

“Do you really not get it? You’re not stupid, but you ask as if you don’t understand the gravity of what you nearly allowed to happen. This is far more grave than neglecting your studies or—”

Gascon’s eyes narrowed. “ _Me_? Why is this only _my_ fault—”

“You will be silent when I am speaking!”

The strength of these words made Gascon freeze, anything else he had meant to say dying on his lips.

“You are the eldest, Gascon!” the Emperor went on, “I expect _more_ , but it is far too rare that I get it. You are not a child anymore. I have tried for years to make you understand this, that your actions have consequences, that a prince has more responsibility. I have obviously failed to make you see my side, but today I can’t step aside and allow such foolishness to continue. Your brother was nearly kidnapped today thanks to your judgement, and—”

As much as a voice from within screamed at him to do otherwise and despite the earlier chill that had frozen the prince’s words to ice before they had even had the chance to leave his throat, any restraint he had earlier possessed had begun to thaw. Until it melted entirely. Words he would never dare utter before reached a boil inside him, and he released them without any ability to hold them back any longer.

“You don’t think I know that?” Gascon said, fists tightening. “I know what happened! I was there! And if you didn’t realize, I was in danger, too!”

His father had displayed an unnerving amount of patience throughout his son’s brief outburst, and only when even the echo itself had finished its repetition did he respond. “Whose point are you trying to prove?”

“Only that…you were only concerned about Marcassin, not me.” Gascon’s arms were shaking, his words leaving his mouth out of pure impulse rather than sense. “You never…you were never…”

“You put yourself in that situation. Marcassin only followed you into it.”

The prince’s voice shook as his resolve already began to weaken. “That’s…that’s _not_ how it happened. You don’t _understand_ —”

He bit back anything else that threatened to spill forth when his father raised one hand. When he spoke no more, the man lowered it back down again with the composure of a statue, in stark contrast to his son’s quaking limbs.

“Gascon, how long have you been visiting the city?”

Gascon’s heart leapt in his chest. “I-I never said I—”

“I am curious to know how my son, whom I have provided for to a level far exceeding what he often deserves, managed to find those _rags_ on such short notice.”

The prince looked down at himself, and it was only now that he recalled with horror the attire he had been wearing this entire time. When he looked up again, he found he had no more to say than he had a moment ago.

“You will not dress that way ever again. And in case I am not making myself clear, as much as you’d like to be a commoner or have tricked yourself into believing that their lifestyle is so much easier than your own, we are royalty, and you shame not only yourself, but me, when you gallivant about the city dressed like a street urchin. No son of mine will be permitted to sink so low. I will not allow it!”

Gascon’s face had grown hot and his cheeks burned. And deep inside, something snapped. “Maybe I’m not your son anymore.” No, something had shattered. And he knew there was no turning back now.

The Emperor’s expression darkened. “Excuse me?”

Gascon sucked in a deep breath as if it was his last, and his fists tightened enough that his nails dug into his palms. “Maybe…I-I’m not your son anymore! Maybe…maybe someday, I won’t be here anymore, and it’ll just be you and Marcassin, just like you’ve always wanted it, and you’ll never have to see me again!”

His voice echoed off the walls, the words themselves lost, but the meaning behind the repeating syllables far from forgotten. His chest heaved, scarce reflection of what seethed beneath the surface. If he had possessed better judgement once, it had fled as soon as he had uttered those fateful words.

Throwing away any instinct of self-preservation, he bowed. “Permission to leave, your _Majesty_?”

His father’s face paled. It was, to Gascon’s recollection, the first time he had ever lacked a response. He should savor it. He should enjoy this moment of power, but instead, he turned and left the room. The first place that came to mind was his own bedroom, and it was here his feet led him. His chest felt hollow, and in all honesty, that was how it had felt throughout his entire outburst, an icy numbness where there should have been fire. He thought back to what he had said, replayed it all word by word. His pace quickened, his speed growing with each repetition.

What had he just done? He had yelled at his father before and had always lived to regret the consequences. No, that was not even the same. He had _screamed_. He had said things whose meanings he had not been able to truly comprehend until now.

He’ll kill me. He’ll bloody kill me.

The prince began to run like one being pursued, a mad scramble that only ended when he ducked into the safety of his room and shut the door behind him. Without the strength to hold back any longer, Gascon threw himself down onto his bed and sobbed into his arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, here's the point where I've got some serious work to do to get this story moving again. Sure, I've got a good ten or so additional chapters typed up, but not all of them are ready to see the light of day quite yet, ya know? I hope to have some new chapters in the near future, though. It's just very important that the story is perfect!


	6. Where Fate Leads

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oi, you lot, bet you didn’t think you’d ever see this story again, did you? Well, I’ve been replaying Ni no Kuni for the first time in 5 years and decided it was time to finish what I started. And by finish, I mean I deleted all the chapters after chapter 5 and have started afresh. Except that’s not entirely accurate because a lot of the scenes from the original version of this story are still intact. I just didn’t like the direction it was going, so I have a lot of changes incoming that I think are much better.
> 
> With that in mind, this chapter remains largely unchanged, except for the addition of the mention of the Tombstone Trail and Gascon’s meeting of his older self. Frankly, I had assumed the whole time travel thing hadn’t happened yet, not until Swaine met Oliver and Esther, but honestly, it would be interesting, and logical (as far as time travel is concerned), to assume that the whole “time travel loop” was already in full effect 15 years prior to the events of the game. Anyway, more notes later.

Gascon had long believed that he had been born sick in the same way some children were born colorblind and others were born with an extra toe. His affliction, however, was not a physical one, but of a variety entirely of the mind, a disease of restless longings that only grew more and more powerful with each year that passed.

Sometimes, he dreamed of visiting Castaway Cove, where he would learn the seafaring ways and become the world’s most cunning pirate. Other times, he imagined how he might one day travel to the Miasma Marshes and slay the mystical two-headed water monster he had read so many stories about. Legend said the beast could all too easily be mistaken for just another fog-enshrouded island rising out of the muddy waters and had brought about the end of many a weary traveler who had failed to take notice of a landmass that had not been there mere moments ago. Of course, if dreams even were a time for being practical, he had to admit that at this point in his life, having thus far fallen short of his full height (if he wished hard enough, surely he could grow another few inches at least), perhaps he would be better off sticking to merely searching for the creature for now and leaving the slaying for later.

In fact, his very first adventure had already just reached its conclusion, a trek through the infamous Tombstone Trail to really give Marcassin’s magical skills the push they needed. It had worked, as his little brother’s stubborn insistence at sabotaging his own efforts had finally been set aside in favor of vanquishing a particularly ghoulish haunted candelabra when it refused to go down easily.

They had met three people to accompany them in their endeavors that day, four if you counted the fairy, a wizard just a few years younger than he was, a girl from the desert, and a haggard man in ragged clothes whose name he didn’t quite recall. It was that last one who stuck with him the longest, for the wretch actually had the audacity to give _him_ advice, advice that was neither requested nor welcome. The notion that such a pathetic excuse for a human being would claim to understand the troubles of royalty was, frankly, insulting.

Though Gascon had no idea what would become of him once he left home, one thing was for certain. Prince or not, he would never stoop as low as that man had.

He had left Hamelin and their new companions behind with no more than a single glance backwards, his only accompaniments his newly completed gun for defending himself against monsters and bandits, along with a suitable sum of guilders the former would be perfect for protecting.

As for Marcassin, he had given him no more forewarning than a farewell when it was time to go and the promise that he would return if ever his little brother had need of him. He wasn’t certain if that was a promise he _could_ keep, but he couldn’t imagine what needs the boy would have at that age, when he had the ruler of the world’s largest empire to dote on him. The promise really should have been the other way around, he had attempted to joke with himself, but at the moment, the thought really wasn’t very funny.

Before he had gone, he had been sure to give Marcassin the sword their father had bestowed on him four years prior. It had, in fact, been a better idea than he had expected, for a reason few would have guessed. It kept his hands full. It was this important detail that made it impossible for his younger brother to grab hold of him, either to hug him or to grasp at the end of his sleeve in an effort to prevent him from leaving. Because it might have worked. If Marcassin had been given the chance to delay his big brother’s departure, he might have succeeded, and Gascon couldn’t afford any more time to second guess himself.

Father could forget he ever existed, for all he cared.

While he certainly had no intention of visiting the Miasma Marshes anytime soon, and the ship that visited from Castaway Cove wouldn’t be back for another several months or so, he decided his first destination as an ordinary teenage boy, not a prince, not royalty, needn’t be chosen ahead of time at all. He would simply venture wherever fate brought him, and so he headed straight for the coast with the hopes of boarding the first vessel he found.

It seemed today was one of the few rare instances in which Lady Luck had decided to favor him, for he just managed to catch a few sailors loading their jolly boats with a shipment of coal from one of Hamelin’s numerous mines before their eventual return to the ship awaiting them some distance from shore. They would only take him along if he was sixteen, they had said, and he hardly counted it as a lie when the truth was only a year off. Twenty guilders was enough to put a stop to any further questions they might have.

That was the funny thing about nobility. Everyone knew who you were, but when you found yourself standing face to face with someone else, no one could recognize you after all the time you spent keeping your distance from the world.

The voyage across the sea took just over two weeks, and aside from a rather vicious bout of seasickness near the beginning, Gascon had never felt so alive. Each morning brought the sun’s warmth on his face, and he watched every sunset from the ship’s prow, where he relished in the feel of the wind through his hair and the spray of the ocean on his skin as the sky would ignite with the final flames of an ebbing day. He had hardly slept a wink that first night. In fact, he had probably spent more of it above deck than below, just staring up at the myriad of glittering lights floating high above. He had never imagined there could be so many stars, and he wondered why Hamelin could ever shut them out as they did. He almost considered never spending another night indoors again, if he could help it.

The former prince ate his meals of salted fish and hard biscuits alone to avoid the suspicious glances the sailors gave him. His father had all his “beggar’s clothes” burned a good many months ago, along with the set he had loaned Marcassin, meaning he had been left with no choice but to begin his journey with nothing but the clothes on his back, all of which maintained the same impeccable condition no one but those of higher breeding enjoyed. The most obvious offender was his short red coat with gold trim, and as such, it was the first thing that would need to go. His current appearance would hardly do if he wished to become no different from any other boy his age, and as he picked at his food, he contemplated how he might find something he was good at, for being a prince was certainly not something in which he had ever had any success.

He had wandered onto deck the morning of the sixteenth day without bothering to tidy his hair after another night lulled to sleep by the rocking of the boat. It was the racket that had woken him, the excited chatter of a dozen voices and the pounding of feet that wished to carry out their task with a greater level of haste than usual. He was forced to step out of the way more than once as he attempted to cross over to the bow of the ship, and it was here that the cause for their apparent hurry became known to him.

Land. A great mass loomed ahead as if it had risen up from the sea itself to greet them. It stretched out between both ends of the horizon, a great continent he felt deep in his chest would be nothing like the one he had left behind. Gascon placed his hands on the railing and leaned forward, as if bringing himself just a few inches closer would allow him to study it that much better.

A small town waited for them, comprised of little houses speckled amongst the cliff side. His eyes were drawn skyward a moment later by the sound of screeching just in time to catch the first group of white birds with black-tipped wings flapping and wheeling their way towards them through the misty morning sky.

“The gulls are here to guide us home, men!” he heard the captain call out behind him, and a part of him felt that he might have a place in that statement himself.

* * *

When Gascon first set out to find his place in the world, he had believed the task to be a relatively simple one. After all, the world was massive and full to the brim with possibilities, and it stood to reason that, out of all those possibilities, there would be at least a handful he might fancy as the role best suited for him.

The town to which fate had carried him was small, possessing only a fraction of the population of Hamelin. The people here were so few in number, in fact, that the entirety of the residents could have lived comfortably within the palace he had once called home. A questioning of the sailors told him the place went by the name of Lari, while it was experience that told him how very foul a fishing community could smell even in just the mild warmth of late spring. Only future days would allow him to discover to what atrocious levels the odor would surely climb in the dead heat of summer.

The smell was so ingrained in the town’s very essence that even closed windows couldn’t keep it out. The majority of it, he believed, was simply because the odor was a distinguishing fixture of the town, like an old landmark or the thriving population of sea gulls Lari’s residents held in so high regard. The rest came from the perpetually simmering pot of fish stew wafting from the ground floor of the inn in which he currently resided.

Named the Cat’s Cradle just like Hamelin’s most popular inn, this one distinguished itself by a tavern on the ground floor that kept returning sailors fed on the pungent “bounties of the sea”, of which they so raucously boasted over their abilities to net. Gascon suspected the perpetration of that ever-bubbling stew, even in the wee hours of the morning, was not so much for flavor and preparation for evening as much as it was to force one into alertness from the moment they woke up.

He believed this with every fiber of his being, as he had experienced proof of his convictions every morning since his arrival. Waking up to such a smell was enough to jolt one’s nerves, and he began this particular morning by pressing his nostrils into his pillow, along with the rest of his face, without care for the potential for suffocation he was inflicting upon himself, just as he had every morning prior.

The dull light filtering through thin, somewhat moth-eaten, curtains was the first indication that morning had arrived, even if it was not the first thing responsible for him being awake to begin with. It was one thing being aware of the lower standards in which the rest of the world lived; it was quite another experiencing it.

His new room, the sole space he could now award the lukewarm title of home, was small, hardly larger, in fact, than the canopy bed he had left behind. Or so it certainly felt. The furniture, which was not his own, but was available to him, consisted of a narrow bed of about the same hardness as the floor, but without the potential for splinters, a wash basin on a table, a chair kept steady thanks to the dusty tome beneath one back leg, the title of which had long since worn away, and a wardrobe. The room was drafty at night, humid during the day, and he was never awarded the privilege of a securely closed window because the buckling of wood in the perpetually damp air had led to a gap in the left side too thin for him to plug up with a spare sock, but too thick not to notice. In short, his new life could not have been more different if a law had been made declaring it.

Gascon washed his face and got dressed, his princely attire having since been replaced by a plain shirt and pants that would attract far less attention, the first ritual of every morning before he faced another day spent searching for that mythical state he had left home to find. Discovering what one was good at sounded a lot more monumental when going about it in an unfamiliar setting, and as he combed the many terraces of the cliff-side village in search of a job that might be right for him, he was often stopped by the small, painted houses of those who dwelt here, if only to give his focus over, even if just momentarily, to a task that required a fraction of the thought.

He had remembered first spotting them from the ship nearly a week ago, but the only thing he had been able to make out at the time was their primary colors of white and blue. From that distance, he had been unable to recognize the thatched roofs, chosen for their ability to attract the gulls as a place to roost, or the waves painted across their surfaces.

Nearly every house had some form of seascape painted upon it, some of the depictions simple and crude, while others displayed clearly the care in which the painter had placed it there. Some were painted in swirls of blue and white and sometimes green, which blended together where the colors had mingled with their neighbors. Some were clean and precise, while others were wild like the sea they represented. There was one in particular he had no choice but to stop and study upon his first pass by, and several more occasions afterward. Each and every time he came upon this particular dwelling, he couldn’t help but marvel at the way the water seemed to shimmer and sparkle before his very eyes, the entire scene painted with such artistry that a small part of him worried that, one of these days, it might spill forth and engulf him.

He had yet to find a single soul willing to hire him by that afternoon, though he couldn’t say any available option held much appeal, either. When he had set out to find his place in life, his aspirations weren’t quite as vague as they might have sounded when he spoke them aloud. He might have given up his status as a prince, but that did not mean he wished to replace it with the occupation of a fisherman or baker. Would that make his father proud, when his youngest son would one day take on the responsibilities of Emperor and Great Sage, while the eldest ranked no higher than the common laborer? It seemed a futile effort to even attempt to compete with his little brother to begin with. _Marcassin_ could wield magic. _Marcassin_ was the favorite. Gascon was neither of these things.

Who was he fooling?

Gascon had no choice but to shake such uncertainties away every time they attempted to take root in his mind. It was still far too early to allow such doubts to overwhelm him. There had to be something out there for him, and if there was, he would find it. He wasn’t one to give up easily, after all, considering the countless times he had managed to track down Hamelin’s black market when even the soldiers themselves had trouble finding it in their ongoing efforts to shut it down.

Nevertheless, he supposed it was about time he learned to be a tad less picky. At least for now. Perhaps his preferences as to what was and was not worthy of a former prince had yet to be fulfilled, but money was money no matter where it came from. Although he had brought along a tidy sum of guilders to get him by, it wouldn’t last forever without a means of replenishing it.

It was the uncertain period between late afternoon and early evening that he spotted a girl of about his age, though it was her unlikely location that drew his eye most of all. She was currently sitting upon a rooftop, and from this distance, it appeared she was weaving thatch into a bare patch roughly half a meter in diameter. Though her fingers moved with nimble skill, her green dress and brown curls, both of which had stray fibers of straw sticking from them at odd angles, didn’t seem particularly well-suited to the task.

Gascon stopped to squint up at her against the backdrop of the late sun, hands to his waist. She took no notice of him, and even less to his intentions, of which he was well aware he must make known before her task progressed any closer to completion.

“For a few guilders,” he began, “I could help you with that. Together, we could probably finish before sundown.”

Her eyes lifted from her task, and she looked about the rooftop on which she was perched, as if the ground below had been entirely forgotten to her. As if in a moment of revelation, she looked his way, absently picking a few strands of thatch from her hair. “You’re certainly direct, aren’t ya?”

He shrugged. “I thought money was too important a detail not to mention.”

She blinked down at him before turning back to the job still left unfinished beside her. “Well, how ‘bout…if you do _all_ of the work, I’ll pay ya a little. I don’t have much money t’ spare, so I’ll happily do it myself if I have to.”

“Point taken.”

“If we have a deal… _do_ we have a deal?”

He grinned. “Why, of course, I wouldn’t dream of haggling any longer with a shrewd negotiator such as yourself.” With a hand to his chest, he bowed low, and he heard her giggle.

Without further delay, she climbed down the awaiting ladder. “I’m glad ya got here when ya did,” she went on, the glimmer of a smirk in her blue eyes, “I’m sure ya can’t see it from here, but there’s a hole that needs repairs. Water damage from all the rain we’ve been gettin’ lately, y’see. I was just gettin’ the thatch outta the way, but now you can do the hard stuff.”

His own grin had proven temporary, for a frown had begun to form in its place the entire time she had been speaking. “The…‘hard stuff’?” he repeated.

She smiled, batting her eyelashes in a manner that made her appear that much craftier. “The wood and nails are over there.” She pointed to a pile of timber stacked up beside the house he had failed to notice until now. “Well, I guess you’ll wanna get started. Ya won’t get paid ‘til ya finish.”

She wiggled her fingers at him and, with a quick farewell, disappeared inside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Flip, mun, this story is chockful of heaping helpings of irony, en’t it?
> 
> Ahem, I was too lazy to revisit the time travel section of the game to see if Gascon knew his older counterpart’s name. (At the bare minimum, I know Esther said Swaine’s name in front of Gascon, but I dunno…) But I decided it would be more interesting if he didn’t, partly for the sake of irony later on and so that his name change was more meaningful and not because he purposely named himself after this guy he met when he was a teenager.
> 
> Still don’t get how Gascon gave Swaine the recipe for the Rogue’s Revolver. I mean, Swaine should possess the same knowledge as his younger self, shouldn’t he? Why would teenage Swaine know something adult Swaine didn’t? That makes no sense! And if it doesn’t make sense, then I’m ignoring it!
> 
> Okay, started to veer off topic a bit. Anyway, don’t forget to leave a review! Ta, mun!


	7. Katrine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seeing as we’re still in the chapters I had recently deleted and have been working to rewrite, I thought it was worth mentioning that the first half of this chapter is brand, spankin’ new. The second half is not because it was fine as is.

Since his arrival, Gascon had wandered past Lari’s harbor countless times on his usual rounds. Every morning, the vast myriad of fishing vessels would leave for the day, their sizes ranging from tiny boats that couldn’t have housed more than two or three crew members to far larger ones that could almost be mistaken for modest-sized pirate ships, had the nets hanging over their sides not hinted at a far less nefarious purpose.

It was the most effective means of making a living here in Lari, as the former prince had been told more times than he cared to count. Nearly every time he asked a shopkeeper or tradesman if they had an opening for him, he would be informed with no shortage of brusqueness that the ready availability of fishing jobs left him with no excuse for his current state of unemployment.

He would have very much appreciated it if they could have just answered him with a simple yes or no.

And though he’d fail to heed their advice time and time again, he’d find himself watching with inevitable regularity as the last of the ships returned every evening just before sundown, wriggling fish with dull, glassy eyes no doubt in tow. It made Gascon’s skin crawl just thinking about it. He was quite fine with eating fish. (Well, quite frankly, he was already growing rather bored of it when it was the _only_ thing he had eaten as of late, fish being one of the cheaper options available to him.) But he was not so fond of the sight of live fish nor could he abide the smell. The soap they provided at the inn was hardly even sufficient for creating suds. He just didn’t think it would be up to the task of driving off a stench of such magnitude.

The longer work continued to elude him, however, the closer Gascon strayed to the harbor, watching from a distance as the men, along with a handful of boys roughly his age, or sometimes even younger, prepared for the long day ahead of them. Nevertheless, by the time he managed to navigate Lari’s terraced streets and reach the docks on the town’s lowest level, the fishing boats would already be gone, more often than not.

It was a shame, really. His internal clock didn’t wake him up that early. And what, honestly, was he to do about it if that’s just the way he was?

This particular morning was clearly an anomaly, as Gascon had found himself all the way down by the edge of the docks far earlier than he normally was, a mere stone’s throw from where the fishing vessels were typically tied up overnight. For once, the boats hadn’t quite left yet, not all of them anyway. It seemed the time for excuses was over. Releasing a long sigh, he forced himself forward, dragging his feet even as the distance between himself and his target grew ever shorter.

If fate really wished for him to become a fisherman, then they wouldn’t leave without him, now would they?

The boards of the dock creaked beneath his feet, decades of salty sea air leaving the timbers to prematurely decay. One would get a nasty splinter if they weren’t careful. Water lapped at the dock’s underside, bringing back memories of his not-so-distant sea sickness.

Coming to a seaside town, he now regretted never learning how to swim. But how could he? There weren’t exactly lakes or rivers in Hamelin. The great fountain in the palace courtyard had certainly never been deep enough, not even for Marcassin. His little brother had fallen in once (through no fault of Gascon’s, mind you). At even his meager height, the water _still_ didn’t quite reach his waist.

Gascon stopped a short distance from one of the smaller fishing boats, where an old man and two younger sailors were busy untangling a stretch of fishing net.

“Oi,” Gascon shoved his hands in his pockets, “I’m new in town, and I was wondering if you needed-”

The older man didn’t even bother sparing him so much as a glance. “Do I _look_ like I need anyone else? Ya shoulda gotten here before the bigger boats left.”

No one could say he hadn’t tried. Gascon was just in the middle of marching away with an enthusiasm he had failed to display earlier when he was stopped dead in his tracks by a gruff voice calling out to him over the sound of the ocean. “Boy, get o’er here! One o’ my men fell ill last night. So it looks like yer in luck.”

Yeah. Luck. He supposed that was one way of looking at it.

The source of the voice was a burly sort of man with a scruffy beard, his bare chest riddled with tattoos, the identities of which were no longer distinguishable beneath the scars. He was standing before the gangplank of a much larger fishing vessel one dock over. Seeing Gascon’s bewildered stare, the man waved him over.

“So, ya got any experience on a fishin’ boat, boyo?” the captain asked at the teen’s reluctant approach.

“I was…a deckhand for a short time, you see, on the boat that goes between here and Hamelin. The… _Lonesome Albatross_.” Well, it certainly wasn’t a lie to say that he had been _on_ that boat. And he _had_ spent a fair amount of time during the voyage watching the sailors work. If you combined all that with catching fish, it couldn’t be too complicated, could it?

“Workin’ on a fishin’ boat ain’t the same as swabbin’ the deck. Ya sure yer up fer the task?”

Gascon was just now considering whether or not he ought to admit that he definitely was _not_ when the man patted his shoulder with enough force that he feared he might have heard an audible crunch. “Well, if yer gonna live in Lari, ya best get used to it. Fishin’s what’s we best known for. Now or never, eh, boyo? Welcome to the crew!”

The man turned away and headed up the gangplank, calling out to his crew that the time to leave was upon them. His fate sealed, Gascon trudged after the captain with a sigh, rubbing his wounded shoulder with one hand. On the bright side, he reckoned this would be good practice did he ever become a pirate. Ha, as if swashbuckling on the high seas would ever impress his father.

Though, was working on a fishing boat really any better?

* * *

It turned out that Gascon had no need to dwell on whether or not his current position would make his father proud because it became painfully obvious that he made a lousy fisherman. He knew nothing about sailing a boat. No matter how many times the captain bellowed orders at him, there was little he could do when he hadn’t the foggiest notion of what the man was going on about. What in the world was a mizzen mast? There was nothing intuitive about the name at all.

And when the time came for actual fishing, he had never before realized how truly feeble he was. Chalk it up to living the last fifteen years of his life in a palace, where the most physical labor he had ever been forced to endure was light combat training when his father wasn’t too busy with ruling an entire empire. Apparently that was, in no uncertain terms, not sufficient preparation for helping to lift a massive net filled to the brim with several hundred squirming fish. Who bloody knew?

When the captain’s preteen son, who was on board for the purposes of learning his father’s trade, had no choice but to step in and pick up the slack on Gascon’s behalf, the former prince knew his fishing days were numbered. More specifically, he could count those days on the fingers of one hand.

Blimey, he might as well use his nose for counting. He had about as many of those as there were days the captain was going to tolerate his inadequacies.

By the end of the day, Gascon’s arms, which he now understood were apparently about as frail as a girl’s (scratch that, perhaps comparing his strength to that of an elderly woman was more fitting), were quivering from exhaustion, and all he had to show for it were the disgruntled glares from the crew he had so thoroughly let down. Of course, there was little _they_ could really do about his shortcomings. The captain, on the other hand…

As the ship made its way back to land that evening, Gascon had retreated below deck as soon as the captain began heading in his direction, hoping against hope the man had not noticed the look of expectant dread in the boy’s eyes when their gazes had inadvertently locked from across the deck. He already knew what the man had to say.

If he had a guilder for every time he was told he was not good enough, he’d have accumulated enough wealth to rival that of even Hamelin’s treasury. At least in this instance, it wasn’t as if he really wanted to be associated with a bunch of lowlife fishermen anyway. He used to be royalty, after all. Let this be a lesson that he needn’t lower his standards so drastically next time.

He managed to elude the captain by slinking down behind a wooden support beam amongst an assortment of barrels containing drinking water in the corner of the ship’s cargo hold. It wasn’t as if it was lost on him just how humiliating it would be if he was to be caught hiding like an unruly child from their parent. But he couldn’t say it was much different from the instinct that drove children to lie about spoiling their supper with cookies when the evidence to the contrary was clear upon their faces, if only to delay the inevitable punishment for even a single moment longer.

He only dared emerge above deck once the ship had arrived back at the dock just before nightfall and the crew was hard at work unloading their catch. Casting a sweeping glance about his surroundings to check for any telltale signs of his would-be assailant, he made his way across the deck with the stiff alertness of a rabbit leaving the safety of a thicket of brambles. He had just made it nearly to the gangplank, and freedom, when the man he had been so keen to avoid stepped out from amidst the throng of sailors, as if he had been awaiting the perfect opportunity to strike when his victim least expected it.

If Gascon had any desire to make a run for it, he was stopped when the musclebound captain grabbed him by the collar of his shirt, effectively barring any hope for escape. The man could have easily lifted him if he so chose. Instead, Gascon simply had to settle for craning his neck as the man towered over him.

“Where da ya think yer goin’?”

Gascon swallowed around the lump that had formed in his throat. “I-I was just going to help the crew unload.” Just give him several more years to develop the muscles for it. He’d get there eventually.

“Sure ya was! Yer the worst fisherman I’ve ever seen, and ya won’t be seein’ a single guilder fer yer trouble!”

Gascon blurted out his next words with hardly a thought for the consequences. “I-it’s not like I did nothing. Can’t you at least pay me for what I _did_ do?”

The teen regretted his words the moment the captain’s teeth bared in a disgusted snarl. The next thing he knew, his assessment of the man’s capabilities were confirmed when his feet lost contact with the deck, and he was thrown bodily over the side of the boat. Gascon only had enough time to release a strangled yelp in comprehension before he hit the cold water below. He floundered to the surface and gasped for breath the moment his head breached the water. He might not have made for a very good fisherman. But he supposed now was as good a time as any to learn how to swim.

* * *

It took Gascon under a month to learn his way around the port town of Lari almost as well as those born here. He suspected it was all thanks to his prior experience navigating the city of his birth that made finding the hidden passages and shortcuts of the cliff side village as easy as putting on shoes in comparison. The former prince knew which shopkeepers could be more easily persuaded to lower their prices and which walkways had fewer potholes for him to trip over. He was also privy to the fact that there was a house on the third terrace that stored a ladder in the neighboring alley, which served as the perfect shortcut to the street above. It was only a shame there was no place for such talents in the world of common laborers, or else he’d be the best of his trade.

Nevertheless, it took him the better part of two weeks to find her again, and when he did finally spot the girl with the hazel curls from across the town square one muggy afternoon, it was only the thought of losing track of her again that forced him to approach her.

She had, upon closer inspection, been shopping for goods in the marketplace, for her arms were weighed down with baskets she managed to carry with grace and poise despite their bulk. He caught her attention with a raised hand, and his heart almost crawled up into his throat at the initial incomprehension her face bore at his arrival. Whatever Gascon had meant to say fled from him at that moment, but he was saved the trouble of trying to recall it when she smiled.

“I can’t afford t’ pay ya for anythin’ else,” were her first words upon their reunion, and he knew he spotted a sparkle in her eye that suggested the cunning of a fox. “Of course,” she swayed this way and that so that her simple blue skirt, the only detail a line of tiny pink ribbons just above the hem, swung about her ankles, “a proper gentleman really doesn’t make a lady pay for favors.”

He scratched his head. “I’m not sure I ever said I _was_ a gentleman.”

“Well, I’m at least a lady, am I not?”

“You tell _me_.”

She nudged her head in the direction she had previously been heading, and he walked with her down the nearest cobblestoned street. He could blame its narrow width, a feature of _all_ streets in this town, for any close proximity to her, had she decided to mention it. She didn’t.

“You’re…new in town,” she began and glanced his way. “I mean, I assume. ‘Cause Lari’s a small place, and I don’t recall seein’ ya around before.”

“Yes, I…moved here…with my father, just about a month ago.” He caught her gaze dart downwards, and when he followed its path, he remembered the load in her arms. “Do you…” he pointed to the basket closest to him, “want me to carry anything?” He flashed her a crooked grin. “Free of charge, of course.”

“I’d been waitin’ for ya t’ ask the entire time.”

“What kind of a gentleman would I be if I hadn’t? And it took me less than five minutes.”

“That’s probably a record in certain parts o’ the world.”

Gascon’s eyebrows rose on his forehead at this statement, but he was spared the chance to ponder over her meaning for much longer when she handed him the entirety of her goods. He could claim it was flattering she didn’t suspect he might steal the lot of it, but it was more likely she was only confident due to the fact that moving at any increased speed was impossible with such a load.

“Is he a fisherman?” she asked, straightening her dress with a few downward tugs now that her arms were free. “‘Tis pretty much the way of everyone here, so that’s why I ask, y’see.”

He hefted a basket packed with turnips in an effort to get a better grip on the handle. “Yeah.”

“Times are tough right now, with…y’know…” her voice fell to a whisper, “the Dark Djinn an’ all.” She clasped her hands together, her stride reduced to the slow, meandering fashion of one who was in no hurry to get where they were going. Her pace, he had noticed, had changed as soon as the one doing the carrying had switched. “My mother worries so, even when I remind her time an’ time again that we’re probably safer than most. Why would he bother with us when there are entire _cities_ t’ pester? At least, that’s how _I_ look at it.”

“Mmm.” He gave an absent nod in reply.

“‘Tisn’t good for her t’ fret so, especially with her health the way it is, but…” She laughed and ran a hand through her hair. “I’m sorry. I’m probably borin’ ya. No one wants t’ hear about someone else’s problems when they have plenty of their own.”

Gascon shook his head. “It’s fine, I really don’t mind.” A particularly strong gust of wind swept in from over the ocean, and he had to plant his feet in place to prevent himself from getting blown over. She, on the other hand, appeared completely unmoved. Her steadiness could only be due to practice. They had no wind in Hamelin.

He turned to better study the ocean below them. “Your village…it has a nice view, doesn’t it?” When she failed to answer, he looked over, “Or do you disagree?”

“Well, personally…” she drew closer to stand beside him, “I hate the ocean. I hate seein’ it each day I look out my window.”

“Really? A lot of people _wish_ they lived near the ocean.”

“A lotta people don’t understand how cruel it can be. I can’t count how many men the sea has taken over the years, my own father among them.”

“Oh, well, I…I didn’t mean…”

“I know. And _you_? Do you like the ocean, that is?”

Gascon drew in a long breath through his nose as the breeze ruffled his hair. “I’ve often thought about becoming a pirate. Does that answer your question?”

“Yes, I suppose it does. It tells me a few other things, as well,” she added, but when his gaze left the sea to turn back to her, she looked away. Even from this angle, however, he thought he still detected evidence of a smile.

They continued down the street, stray flurries of wind continuing to play with their clothes, though he seemed to be the only one having a difficult time remaining upright. Even the gulls overhead merely allowed the wind to guide their flight rather than hinder it. With his gaze directed skyward, he nearly walked into a building before realizing she had stopped, and whether or not she had noticed, he was at least grateful she failed to address his near blunder.

“Well, here I am. I need t’ make my mother lunch, but…” she tapped a finger to her cheek, “I just realized…I’ve forgotten t’ ask your name.”

Gascon’s heart stopped. In his short time here, he hadn’t yet had any need to provide anyone with his name. He had always planned on coming up with a new one, for if he was going to shed his title of prince and give up the nicer things in life that went along with it, it only made sense to change the name of his birth, as well.

Under the warmth of her smile, he was finding it impossible to think straight at the moment.

He delayed answering in favor of licking his lips, well aware of how it might look if he failed to answer such a simple question. “M-Mar…” he began and cursed himself at once for being so foolish as to consider taking on his little brother’s name as his own. She blinked at him and tilted her head, a clear indication that he was running out of time.

“G-Gaston,” he said, the butchering of his own name thanks to his sudden inability to speak. He was an idiot, and he would have slapped a hand to his forehead had he not already made himself look like a proper nutter. Or if even one of his hands had been free.

“Gaston?” she repeated, though the slow manner in which she said it suggested she was about as unsure as he was.

“Gascon. I…I said Gascon. That’s…what my name is.” It was a blessing he was still holding her groceries. Otherwise he might have cut his losses and ran for it.

“Gascon,” she said, even more carefully this time in her pronunciation. “Did I get that right?”

He nodded once he realized his jaw was glued shut.

“Well, I’m Katrine. It’s been very nice talkin’ t’ ya. We’ll…see each other again some time. Right?”

He nodded again. “Yeah.”

“Wonderful. Uh, can I have my things back now?”

“Sure.” Uncertain as to what she was asking due to the recent whistling he had developed in his ears, he made no move to return her possessions. It was only after she reached for them herself that he relinquished his grip. Now he was free to run. Straight into the ocean.

“I-it was nice meeting you, too” he said over her “thank you” and turned to march away in a far stiffer manner than he intended.

“Gascon,” she said, and he jerked to a stop before he had gone more than ten feet.

“Yeah?” he asked and turned back to face her.

“If you’re still havin’ trouble findin’ work, I know just the man t‘ talk to. Jameson. He employs my brother, as well, and he can use more workers from time to time. You can find ‘im…”

A shrill female voice broke in over her from inside the house. “Kat? Kat, is that you?”

“Yeah, Mama, ‘tis me!” she called through the open front door. Returning her attention to him, she went on, “I hafta go. Just ask around. I’m sure someone can point ya in the right direction.”

By the time Gascon could develop the courage to thank her, she had already gone inside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, so the scene with Gascon’s failed attempts at becoming a fisherman is completely new. I figured a prince wouldn’t be nearly as well-suited for manual labor as regular folks his age who had probably been working since they were young.
> 
> Random note: Katrine’s name was somewhat inspired by the word kittiwake, a species of seabird in the seagull family, Laridae. Now isn’t that neato? Please review, my dears.


	8. Lari’s Local Legend

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter originally published years ago, now returning to you, my dear readers, with some expanded content.

As per Katrine’s advice, Gascon set about locating the man by the name of Jameson even as his mind made unwelcome predictions as to how long it would be before he inevitably got on the man’s bad side. It had taken him just around half a day to make enemies of the fishing boat captain. Perhaps if he was lucky, he’d be able to beat his record and last a full 24 hours before making a fool of himself this time.

It hadn’t been particularly difficult to locate Jameson’s place of business, as everyone in Lari seemed to be familiar with him. In fact, the manner in which they spoke of him seemed to indicate he was some form of folk legend, leading Gascon to wonder if the figure Katrine had pointed him to even existed in the first place or was merely some fictitious character the entirety of the town’s residents believed in. Upon questioning the people he met in the street on Jameson’s whereabouts, he was more often than not provided instead with grand stories of his exploits, the majority of which revolved around how this man had, supposedly, prevented their village from slipping into the sea roughly two decades ago during an event that had since gained the rather pretentious title of “the Great Calamity”.

He couldn’t say he was impressed. Probably because he didn’t believe a word of it.

What Gascon found once he had followed the directions provided to Lari’s very own local hero was an unassuming building nestled amidst countless others on one of the town’s upper terraces. The blue and white paint adorning its front had long since faded in the sun and had started to blend together into a dull bluish grey, and if one squinted hard enough, you could just make out the indistinct resemblance the building bore to that of a bird, the wings jutting out on either side worn away almost to nothing by countless storms. This detail would have likely gone entirely unnoticed by him if it wasn’t for the words painted on a sign hanging above the door, “Jameson’s Swift Solutions”. In fact, though most of the sign had faded to near illegibility, the man’s name was the freshest thing about the place, as if it was the only thing that truly mattered.

The door triggered a bell when he passed through it, and as he wandered into the small, musty room beyond, a quick scan of his surroundings told him that the room was currently unoccupied, save for whatever resided in the large glass bowl resting atop the old wooden desk to his right. Along the wall closest to him were tacked an untold number of articles and clippings from Lari’s local newspaper, Gull’s Insight, which covered the space like some sort of makeshift wallpaper. It would not have required any stretch of the imagination for him to guess what topic united them all.

He was just in the middle of studying the bowl’s contents out of idle curiosity when a wiry young man several years his elder emerged from a back room, his brown hair pulled back in a short ponytail and a fresh scar over his right eye. He knew something had to be off about those stories.

“Have ya seen the-oh, afternoon,” upon seeing the newcomer, the other boy stopped in mid-stride and propped his arms on either side of the doorframe. “What can I help ya with?”

Gascon straightened to attention, his perusal of the fish bowl yet to have come up with any answers as to the identity of its resident, though he did catch a flicker of movement from within the tallest patch of seaweed. “I was told I could find work here. Uh…” His attention wandered to one newspaper heading in particular which read “Jameson and Crew Slay Dreaded Sea Wyrm”. From there, his eyes were drawn upward to a large bone nearly his height rimmed with sharp protrusions he had previously suspected was a section of vertebrae, but was, in actuality, just a piece of a lower jawbone. Where in blazes had she sent him? “I mean…” he retreated backwards several paces, “I doubt I’m even qualified, so…so I should probably…”

The older boy snatched a jar from a nearby shelf and came forward. “Ah, so we’ve got a new kid who wants to join the team, eh? No qualifications here. All ya need to work for old man Jameson is an able body. At least,” he stopped behind the desk and dropped what appeared to be a dried fish head into the glass bowl, “that’s what he always says.”

“Oh, so…so you’re not…”

Screwing the lid back onto the jar, the older teen laughed. “Nah. I’m just another member of his crew. What…ya thought…” he pointed to his chest and chuckled again. “Ya must not be from around here if ya don’t know old Jameson. Who told ya to come here anyway?” He set the jar down beside the bowl, the remaining fish heads settling inside.

Gascon shrugged, unable to hide a grimace at the jar’s gruesome contents. “Just a girl I met the other day.”

At these words, the other boy’s gaze sharpened, his smile loosening an equal degree. “A girl, huh? This lass wouldn’t happen to be Katrine, would she?”

Gascon stuck his hands in his pockets and studied the fish head still bobbing on the water’s surface. It seemed much too large for whatever it was intended to feed. “Could be. Why do you ask?”

“She’s just my sister, is all. She’s liable to put me outta work if she starts sendin’ over too many new faces.” He gave a soft chuckle, but the earlier humor seemed to be absent. There was a splash, but by the time Gascon looked over, he was unable to catch any more than a dark shape retreating back into the safety of the seaweed. The fish head was gone.

“Like I said, if you don’t need me, that’s-”

“If my sis sent ya here,” the older boy came around the desk, “I might as well give you that job she promised ya. ‘Tis the least a brother can do. Name’s Reese.” He thrust out a hand, but Gascon was already out of reach, having decided to head for the door before the other boy had even been given a chance to introduce himself.

“You know what, why don’t I return once your boss comes back? I’d hate to get you in trouble if-” He was just about to turn around when he backed into someone, the sound of the bell signifying their arrival going unnoticed until now. When he spun to face the newcomer, he was met with a gnarled, old man with a wide-brimmed hat and tapered beard. Now, if _this_ was Jameson, his appearance alone might have been enough to solidify himself as the mythological figure the town had made him out to be. Of course, whether or not their stories about him held any merit had yet to be determined.

Reese jabbed a nonchalant thumb his way as he went about returning the jar of fish heads to its original shelf, the situation apparently having already lost interest to him. “This kid wants a job. Kat sent him.” He paused, turning his head ever so slightly to acknowledge them from out of the corner of his eye. “He’s new in town.”

“Ah, I see, I see.” The old man stooped to get a better look at the boy before him, the “kid” in question growing stiff under the man’s penetrating gaze. “Name?”

“Gascon.”

“Any physical ailments, boy?”

With nowhere else to turn to escape his inspection, he settled for aiming a frown at Reese. “No.”

“Your mama and papa all right with their lad engagin’ in…potentially risky business?”

“Huh?”

“Good.” Gascon flinched when the man patted him on the head before turning to shuffle off in the direction of his desk. “You look to be a fine lad. A fine lad indeed.”

“You just met me,” the former prince said before he could stop himself. Did Katrine have some kind of grudge against him?

With a soft groan, Jameson eased himself into the chair behind his desk, the wood creaking with the weight. Once he was settled, he arched a white, tufted eyebrow at the boy standing across from him. “‘Tis a strange one, as well,” he told Reese from behind one hand, though he made no efforts to lower his voice. With that, he laced the fingers of both hands upon the desk in front of him and directed a nod Gascon’s way. “If ya got legs that can walk and arms that can carry, then I can make use o’ ya. Sit and let me tell ya what we do here.”

Gascon frowned at the floor the man had indicated in growing confusion until Reese brought over a chair he had retrieved from the back room. Once he had done as he was told, the old man went on to recount a handful of tales that defied belief and which closely matched the stories the villagers had told him just an hour prior, with the exception that Jameson’s version contained an even greater number of embellishments than theirs did. In short, he was Lari’s guardian, and nothing beyond “the most dire of peril” could threaten it. Not while he still breathed anyway. And based on everyone’s opinion of him, it seemed more than likely he was considered immortal anyway.

The task: fix what was broken, protect what was not. Village guardian indeed. That was easy for him to say when he had an entire crew of young men at his disposal to do the physical labor he once excelled at in his youth (his words, not Gascon’s). Why some forgotten village in the middle of nowhere even needed a guardian, Gascon knew not, but Jameson said it was the frequent storms and constant damp that kept the place in a constant state of disrepair. If no one tended to the village, it could very well be wiped from existence with the next hurricane. Or so he said.

Hero, legend, or none of the above, one thing was certain, Jameson was not a man who was prone to mincing his words. As soon as he had completed his introductions, the former prince was assigned to the “drudgery” no one else wanted to do. The work was hard, and he couldn’t afford to pay much. But it was important, and one should just be grateful they were given the opportunity to do it.

Gascon, however, couldn’t say the sentiment had rubbed off on him. In fact, he was feeling the exact opposite of gratitude at the moment.

* * *

Any bitterness Gascon had felt over what Katrine had gotten him into increased tenfold when he learned that those benefiting from his impending labor were not only confined to the human residents.

His first task as Jameson’s newest lackey involved the seagulls the town seemed to hold in such high regard. They were the guardian angels of sailors, it was said, watching over them and guiding them home when the fog was thick. The town and its people would surely wither and perish without them.

That’s why Gascon had to relocate their eggs, a perfectly valid use of his time if there ever was one.

It was the very next morning that the work began. He had been told to meet Katrine’s brother by the cliff on the north side of town. When Gascon caught sight of him, he noticed the older boy was wearing thick leather gloves that rose to his elbows. That was the first indication that things were not going to go well for him.

“This is important stuff, so that’s why I gotta make sure ya do it right.” Reese stood with his back to the cliff, his hands on his waist and feet set apart to better steady himself against the wind. “Ya see that cliff behind me?”

Gascon’s face remained impassive, his eyes refusing to wander back to the indicated cliff face. His first viewing of it had been enough. “How could I miss it?” The base of the cliff they stood before had been undercut by the constant crashing of waves, a fact he had noticed upon his initial survey of the sharp rocks below.

“The integrity of this cliff side’s been growin’ weaker an’ weaker this past year, but Jameson fears last month’s earthquake may have struck the final blow, so t’ speak. Before long, the entire cliff face could slide right into the ocean, and the gulls with it.”

“Can’t seagulls fly?” the younger boy asked, his resolve faltering when his eyes flickered back to the spot where his impending death would soon occur.

Reese shook his head with a roll of his eyes. “Can seagulls…that’s a fine attitude to have. No, seagull eggs and chicks _can’t_ fly. That’s why we have to move ‘em to safer ground.”

Gascon crossed his arms and tried to stop himself from shivering in the wind. “Oh, I see. Because the seagulls’ children are the future or something like that. Do I have that right?”

The older boy turned away with a snort. “Let’s see how funny ya think this is when you’re hangin’ fifty feet over jagged rocks and poundin’ waves.”

Sure, funny. That was _exactly_ how Gascon felt about this whole situation. It was a right laugh.

Reese marched for the cliff and, upon reaching the edge, turned back to him with a smirk. “Should I show ya how it’s done, or are ya already feelin’ confident enough to set out on your own?”

“Be my guest. I want to make sure this is even humanly possible before I risk my skin for a bunch of birds.”

“All right. Follow along behind me. I assure ya, ya won’t be so cocky in a few minutes.”

Without even so much as an ounce of hesitation, the older teen took hold of the rock wall looming before him and flipped one foot onto a ledge Gascon didn’t even know was there. The other foot followed suit a second later, and he began sidling along the cliff side with naught but a barely perceptible trail of footholds between him and the sea below.

Gascon thought his blood might have frozen.

Reese stopped and glanced over. “So, are ya comin’ or not? I ain’t gonna go easy on ya. Not with that cheek you were just sportin’.” When Gascon failed to budge, he motioned for him to follow once more with a flip of his head. “Come on.”

The younger boy took a few steps closer and leaned forward just enough to bring the sharp rocks below into view once again. Would such a fall be inherently deadly or would he merely suffer a horrible case of mangling? He rather hoped for the former.

“Come on! Quit wastin’ time!”

Gascon sucked in a deep breath. Everyone had to die someday, he supposed. Why put it off? His father certainly couldn’t accuse him of procrastination anymore, now could he? The former prince, whose previous life had never before looked so enticing, hugged the cliff wall and slid one foot out onto a protrusion of rock. He waited a moment, and when it supported his weight, he allowed the rest of his body to join it.

He followed along after his guide at a far slower pace, his own heart hammering with such ferocity, he feared it might burst forth from his chest and knock him from his already unsteady perch. Even the wind itself seemed to be working against him as it rushed in his ears and tugged at his clothes, causing him to rock precariously as he inched onward like a particularly lethargic snail.

“Just a little farther. You’re doin’ fine. Just let the old instincts guide ya.”

I have no instincts, Gascon thought. Princes are completely devoid of any such thing. Instincts. Survival skills. Common sense.

“The nests are just a few more feet,” Reese went on. “This is when ya gotta be real careful, ‘cause the-”

Gascon failed to prevent a cry when something struck him in the head, and, for a second, the belief that he had already bashed his head upon the rocks below jolted through his mind before he realized he was still in the exact same spot as before. He winced at another sharp pain on the other side of his head, all the while becoming distinctly aware of a whooshing from behind that was not the wind.

“Get! Go on!” came a voice from his right. “We’re just tryin’ to help ya, ya dumb birds!”

When he dared peek over at how his comrade was faring, Reese was swatting one leather-clad arm at his own pair of attackers. The screeching birds neatly avoided his attempts to shoo them away with effortless maneuvers, all the while pecking and kicking their clawed, webbed feet in defense of the nest hanging just above his head.

“This is insane!” Gascon said, covering his face once more as his personal assailant pecked him again. He had to have been a complete nutter to agree to this.

“Ya should see what it’s like when half _aren’t_ off catchin’ fish! Let’s get the eggs and go!” With little regard for the gulls flapping about him, Reese reached up and plucked one egg from the nest and held it out.

Gascon leaned away as far as he dared and shook his head. “I don’t want it! They’ll kill me!”

“Ya wanna spend all day out here? Take it and head back! I’ll get the rest!”

Gascon reached for the small object, hissing in pain when a gull pecked him in the hand. “You lot really don’t seem worth protecting!” Not wishing to wait for another blow, he snatched the egg and held it to his chest as a warm trickle of blood ran over his hand. If this abuse went on for much longer, his good looks would be the next thing to go, and the heavens knew he didn’t have much left after that.

They were chased back to land by a cacophony of angry shrieks and whistles as a mob of enraged seagulls swarmed around them. Once they had returned to the relative safety of solid ground, the two boys rushed all three of the rescued eggs to the artificial nests that had already been prepared in anticipation of their grueling task upon the roof of a nearby barn, the owner of which had been more than happy to donate to their “noble cause”. Even once the eggs had been relinquished, the pair were pursued a good twenty feet more before the gulls gave up and left to check on their relocated brood.

Nevertheless, they didn’t stop running until they had reached the edge of town and the sound of the gulls had been lost far behind them. Safe at last, Gascon doubled over, hands to his knees as he fought to catch his breath, his body feeling as if it had been battered by a dozen tiny fists. Sharp and pointy fists, no less. Now why had he chosen to leave Hamelin? The place really wasn’t so bad, come to think of it. At least there were no birds there. Maybe that’s what the roof was for.

“Nice job.” Reese wiped a few stray puffs of seagull down from his clothing, though he seemed none the worse for wear otherwise. “So, are ya ready to tackle the next one?”

* * *

Gascon lay awake that night, his body aching from a dozen tiny bruises and his ears ringing from the cries of the creatures that had given them to him. One might have assumed that an exhausted body would be the perfect thing to lull one off to sleep, but such a person would be sorely mistaken. As much as he wanted rest, his mind wouldn’t allow it, for it had yet to slow down even long after his feet had. In his head, he was still running away from furious seagulls out for blood.

It would have been immensely helpful if the gulls themselves had been informed of his intentions.

Today’s task had been an utterly ridiculous one, and as he stared at the dark space above him where he knew the ceiling ought to be, he mused that it was no real job at all, but rather, one that had been made up solely for the purposes of giving the old man a chance to test just how far one was willing to go under his command. The answer was this: he had already been pushed beyond his limits, and if anyone thought he would return tomorrow to do it all over again, they had another thing coming.

He turned over onto his side, only to flip to the other a second later. While Hamelin was well-known for being the most advanced city in the world, he had greatly underestimated just how far the rest of civilized existence had managed to lag behind. To be honest, there wasn’t a whole lot the people of Hamelin had to lift a finger for. If any resident of that vast city had chosen to steal bird eggs, had they been bored enough, or insane enough, to do so, they would have found a mechanical way to get the job done that certainly didn’t involve getting pecked to death dozens of feet above one’s certain demise. Their _second_ demise, to be more exact, once you remembered the seagulls.

With not a second of forewarning, Gascon shot up in bed when an idea struck him. He may have no longer been one of Hamelin’s countless residents, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t still think like one.

* * *

It was roughly mid-morning when Gascon approached the cliff face in a purposeful march, a place he would have been mad to return to twelve hours prior. Many of the gulls were already flapping about, currently unaware of the human advancing towards them, wheeling and diving into the cold waters below for their morning catch. He made a furtive sweep of his surroundings to ensure he was not being watched and retrieved his gun from his belt. As much as he would have liked to use it for its usual purpose, that would have to wait for another day.

He had stayed up late last night, adjusting the newest addition he had made to his pistol. In the few weeks he had thus far resided in Lari, he had developed a rather decent relationship with the innkeeper, a plump and motherly sort of woman. If you considered the type of woman who seemed more than happy to whack unruly children with a spatula motherly. She had taken pity on him shortly into their acquaintanceship on account of her assumption that he was a sad, little orphan. He reckoned his stories about taking care of himself since the age of seven had a little something to do with it.

While he hadn’t initially been too fond of her subsequent habit of feeling sorry for him, he had grown to accept these feelings towards him. As of late, he had been feeling pretty sorry for himself, too.

Since then, she had no qualms against giving him any spare scraps she might have accumulated during her daily duties as innkeeper of the Cat’s Cradle. The most valuable to him were frayed bits of rope too short to be of much use to anyone else and bent utensils, both of which served to be surprisingly useful in his ongoing endeavors at improving his pistol. His most recent upgrade was a sort of grappling hook function for retrieving distant objects.

He had been working on this personal project of his for years now, and the short span of time since leaving the palace was no exception. Being so far from home and the life to which he had become so accustomed, he felt that keeping his mind busy with mechanical things was the only way to maintain some sort of connection with the city of his birth.

It made him feel just a bit closer to Marcassin. The grappling hook had originally been his little brother’s idea, after all.

For now, he would have to settle with the fact that the newest addition to his pistol would remain crude and primitive until he managed to procure parts of higher quality. The last step he really needed to trouble himself with at the moment was wracking his mind for the perfect way to pad the grappling hook in order to better facilitate proper egg handling. He had ended up settling with wrapping two of his spare socks on either prong when nothing better occurred to him. Now it was time to see just how well his efforts would pay off.

He crouched down by some bushes that grew by the cliff side and aimed, one eye squinting of its own accord. Setting his sights on an egg in clear view roughly twenty feet away, he fired the grappling hook. Time slowed, his breath held in anticipation of two opposing outcomes. There was a crackle less than a second later indicating which outcome had come to pass that simultaneously startled him and the gull sitting in the neighboring nest. The bird hopped to its feet just as he ducked behind the shrubbery to watch its actions through the leaves. Its small head swiveled this way and that, and its wings folded and unfolded several times, as if in anticipation of chasing the one responsible for its comrade’s misfortune. Unable to locate anything out of the ordinary, however, the seagull eventually settled back into its nest, but not before it cast about itself one final, suspicious sweep.

Gascon peered over the top of the bushes and aimed again, this time with both hands wrapped around the trigger and his elbows locked in an effort to force his arms to remain steady. His hand had wavered last time. That was the only reason it hadn’t worked. He fired again, his eyes widening as he watched the padded hook latch onto its next target. This time, nothing met his ears but the soft rustle of dried plant fibers, though it was enough to attract the attention of the same gull as before. The rope coiled back with equal speed, the egg with it, and in that moment, his eyes, and the gull’s, met from across the expanse dividing them. Spotting the egg thief, well-meaning or no, the gull took flight in eager pursuit.

Gascon snatched the egg free of the hook and began to run, a smirk crossing his lips as the screeching of his pursuer grew in volume behind him. Some might call his efforts laziness. He called them efficiency.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has largely remained unaltered, save for the decision to make Jameson’s business a Swift Solutions of sorts and expanding the section revolving around Gascon’s gun. This is really the last thing tying him to Hamelin, so it should probably have a good deal of significance for him.
> 
> I had this idea that guns are a fairly recent development in their world. And it would stand to reason that Gascon, being a boy with fantasies of becoming a pirate, would want one of his own, something his father is adamantly against. I mean, Gascon isn’t exactly the most responsible boy around. (You just know those window panes behind the palace fountain would not be safe when faced with a mischievous boy equipped with a long-range weapon and ample spare time! I’m not saying Gascon would do it on purpose. I’m just saying, one way or another, it would end up happening, and no length of time spent hiding in his room would spare him from his father’s wrath.)
> 
> So he decides to build his own gun as a secret project only he and Marcassin know about. I rather like the idea of little Marcassin, not understanding his brother’s desire to build a gun, of all things, suggesting a more harmless function be added. And there you have it, my extended and random backstory for Gascon’s gun.
> 
> Oh, and keeping with the seagull theme, Reese’s name comes from the word Rissa, the genus of the kittiwake, a type of seagull. Anyway, please review, dear readers; it is much appreciated!


	9. Womanly Wiles

If someone had told Gascon he would be working for that Jameson fellow another day longer, he would have called them mad. In fact, he had planned on leaving just as soon as he received his pay and never giving that old nutter a second thought. Seriously, what would his next job be? Protecting the town’s rat population from hungry felines? Just stick your hand into that dark and foreboding mouse hole, Gascon. The little buggers don’t bite much.

Upon returning to the old man’s small and rundown place of business, the first thing Jameson had inquired was how exactly Gascon had been able to complete his task so quickly and with so few bruises. It seemed rather unsettling that an employer should even have to question why one of their underlings was still alive and in possession of all their limbs, but once the teen had explained his methods, the old man had risen to his feet with such fervor, one would think his chair was on fire. Rather, it appeared he merely wanted to congratulate Gascon on his ingenuity, along with nearly yanking the boy’s arm from its socket in the intensity of the handshake that followed.

In all honesty, Gascon’s knowledge of machinery and other mechanical contraptions simply came from growing up in Hamelin, where nearly everything but the people themselves were mechanical, in one way or another. Nonetheless, that didn’t stop the old man from showering him with praise and informing him that his days of hard labor were over. Never before, and never again, would drawing a gun in the presence of one’s employer be so rewarded.

They spent the rest of the day exchanging ideas for a project Jameson had been “scratching his mind over” for the last week or so. The town’s many terraces, as Gascon himself had already noticed, made navigating the place quite bothersome when one had several stories to ascend and was lacking the willpower to walk so far. Apparently, it was even worse for the shopkeepers who wished to share their wares with the outside world, especially when the caravan drivers who could do just that often didn’t have the patience to wait for them to haul their goods up so great a distance. Jameson had already drawn up the blueprints for a lift that could solve the problem. The real obstacle was devising a means of powering it.

While Gascon was more than familiar with the steam power commonly used back home, it was a different matter entirely incorporating this kind of technology into a town where such advances were still a thing of the distant future. Even so, he supposed he knew enough about how steam turbines worked that he might be able to figure out a way to power the lift with wind instead. He knew Lari had plenty of that.

A clear plan of action decided, the old man declared the project fit to begin tomorrow. But this time, Gascon would not be responsible for the grunt work. He was, rather, to be in charge of this particular assignment thanks to Jameson’s faith in him. His own father had never spared him as much.

It was funny how, despite spending his life as a prince, Gacon had never really had authority over anything. Sure, he could order the servants around on the most basic of errands, but he could goad them into no more and no less obedience than what was shown his younger brother. Of course, it couldn’t be overlooked that some of the palace staff even had the nerve to give _him_ commands, whether to demand he take a bath or return to his studies. Even the head cook had been known to provide a stern word or two whenever he was caught stealing snacks from the palace kitchens, and sometimes he wondered who, in the end, had the real authority, the princes or their servants.

The fact that he was only overseeing one other person mattered little. The thrill of telling someone else what to do, and not due to his title, was more than enough.

His “inferior”, as he preferred to think of him, the term applying to more than just rank, was a stubby young man of about Reese’s age named Herman. He was built like a squat oak, and he bore it all with about as much personality. While Gascon had bigger plans for himself one day, he thought this guy fit into the role of manual laborer quite nicely.

They began their work from the comfort of the small workshop situated in the back of Jameson’s office, and by the second day, they had already taken their task outside to begin installation of the windmill blades and pulley system high upon the clifftop on Lari’s north end to facilitate much quicker movement between the top of the cliff and the village’s lowest terrace. It was here that the former prince’s mechanical prowess would really get a chance to shine, and with it, his authority.

Throughout it all, Herman obeyed Gascon’s instructions without protest despite their age difference and the vast discrepancy between the lengths of their respective employments to the old man. In all honesty, it was a baffling sort of obedience that the younger boy thought greatly diminished the satisfaction he should be feeling over his superior rank. He had expected to be questioned. He had expected some sort of resistance that would inevitably force him to remind his comrade exactly who was in charge here. He had expected the other to lament over the blatant unfairness of the arrangement. But he didn’t do any of those things.

As the third day progressed in a silent productivity for which Gascon doubted he could claim any real responsibility, he began to order his comrade to pick up the pace even though they were already ahead of schedule. And the older boy did it, without complaint or the slightest indication of grumbling. In fact, this guy had not spoken more than a handful of words since they had first been assigned to work together, save for a muttered “mornin’” at the start of each day and a nod when Gascon informed him for the third time that morning that, in the short span of two days in Jameson’s employ, he had already managed to attain a higher rank than him. He counted the last one as a word because he had nothing else to work with.

By the end of the week, the project had already reached completion, and with it, Gascon’s days with Jameson and his motley crew were only just beginning. The next two months flew by at a startling pace, spring giving way to summer, as the former prince turned laborer completed an odd assortment of tasks for the eccentric old man, alongside roughly a dozen other teenage boys and young men. While it turned out that his authority over his tree trunk of a comrade had been short-lived, the favor that Jameson had decided to bestow upon him was not.

Many an afternoon was spent exchanging ideas with the old man, who claimed that he, too, was something of an inventor, and the sheer range of creations he had come up with over his many decades boggled the mind. He would have done well in Hamelin had fate decided to place him there, but instead, Jameson had spent his entire existence in a town stuck a century behind the world’s most advanced city, with ideas beyond his time, but often lacking the tools to make much use of them. Not unlike the state in which Gascon had found himself since leaving home, really.

Funnily enough, Gascon had never before thought of himself as an inventor. The idea to build his own pistol had only sprung from necessity when his father refused to allow him to have one of his own, citing the boy’s own lack of responsibility in the past. Furthermore, they were not standard issue in the Hamelin military and were, more often than not, the weapon of choice for pirates and other assorted villainy. That was probably what made the young prince want one so badly. Well, along with his inexplicable desire to do exactly the opposite of whatever his father commanded him. That second point might have been the stronger motivation.

As if the old man’s newfound faith in him was not enough, Jameson himself turned out to be an excellent source of resources as far as Gascon’s pistol was concerned. The man had far better materials at his disposal than the innkeeper, and it wasn’t long before Gascon had upgraded his gun’s new grappling hook attachment to something far more respectable.

In fact, the old man had since offered free use of his workshop any time Gascon had need of it. After all, Jameson expected great things from him. A mind like Gascon’s should never be held back, he had said.

Gascon had eagerly thanked him at the time, though his face had fallen as soon as Jameson had turned away to attend to a customer.

Why had his own father never said anything like that?

* * *

It sometimes seemed to Gascon that the lengths some guys were willing to go for a girl were rather ridiculous. He had no problem helping a lady out every now and then or complimenting her on her dress, but slaying a dragon or enduring trials of wit and strength at the risk of one’s own life was asking just a bit too much for his liking. Of course, based on such extreme examples, it was clear he had not had much experience in that department during his years as a prince.

What he knew about chivalry and the male-female relationship came from books he had read on long afternoons when he hadn’t the will to attend to his studies or from conversations he overheard whilst eavesdropping on unsuspecting servants or soldiers. One man had shaved off his mustache for a girl. Whatever facial hair Gascon ended up with one day, he didn’t plan on doing anything to it that wasn’t his own idea. It was his face, after all, and the way he saw it, it was his last remaining asset now that he no longer had wealth and a lofty title to stand him out from the crowd. He wasn’t the worst looking guy around, he could say that much.

Nevertheless, despite these beliefs and the fruitless, but fervent, verbal battles he would often have with himself over the absurdities of fiction in a book incapable of arguing back with him, it looked as if he might very well have fallen into the same trap as all those lords and knights before him. Lately, it had begun to feel as if every time he visited Katrine, they would end up doing chores together. _Her_ chores. Hold this, sweep that, pull out my splinter, and do it right, will you? Today, she needed medicine for her ailing mother, but instead of buying it like any sane person, she intended to make it. It was cheaper that way, and in monetary value, he supposed he’d take her word for it. Based on the risk it posed to one’s own personal safety, however, he had to say it was not the better option.

The final ingredient was a type of red lichen that made its home on the moist surfaces of rocks battered by the sea. And he had begun to suspect with deflating spirits that _he_ would be the one assigned to the task of gathering it. She didn’t say it in so many words, but her smile told him everything, until she inevitably pointed out the best rock to begin his search. It was, to his increased dismay, not attached to land in any way, but was, rather, a tiny black island jutting out of the sea twenty feet from shore. It was just fortunate he had greatly strengthened his swimming abilities over the course of the last month or so, as the only thing that could have possibly been worse than the task at hand was having to admit that he couldn’t do it at all. Lari’s smallest children could swim as well as any fish, so there would be no excuse for him.

He had to wonder if she had simply planned this to get him shirtless. Just in case, he kept it on. That would teach her to trick _him_.

Gascon arrived on the rock weighing roughly twice what he had originally from the sheer amount of water his clothing had soaked up. His own plan to stay fully clothed for a dip in the sea had backfired on him, it would appear, but at least he could count on the sun’s warmth to dry him as he worked. Heck, he might very well remain out here all afternoon to sunbathe while he was at it. He could use a tan. All that time spent beneath Hamelin’s bronze canopy had made him the palest person in Lari.

What he had apparently failed to take into account was the constant crashing of the waves upon this lonely spire, not to mention the sheer distance spray could travel when it was so inclined. Most of the lichen could be found on the rock’s sides, forcing him to spend the majority of his time where the water struck most, but even a short retreat to the island’s center did not offer the reprieve from the cold sea for which he had hoped.

The teen spent nearly a half hour scraping lichen off the sides of the rock with his fingernails before returning to shore, shivering and thoroughly soaked to his bones and deeper. Spluttering water from his face, he produced the jar containing the mass of lichen he had accumulated, only to freeze when he caught sight of something undeniably suspicious. Blinking salty water from his eyes one last time, his vision focused just enough to confirm that the small basket Katrine was sitting beside was already full to the brim with the red, flaky fungus.

His eyes narrowed. “What’s this?”

Her head ducked in the motion of one swallowing their own amusement. “Oh, well,” her attention darted for a moment to the basket beside her, as if it was but an afterthought, “the stuff way out on that rock is better quality, an’-”

“I don’t see why that would be.”

Katrine smiled and held out a hand. “I’ll take that, please.” As ill-inclined as he may have been to give in after her trickery, he handed over the results of his labor when careful consideration could uncover no good reason for the unpleasant substance to remain in his possession. Once the jar had been safely tucked away in her basket, along with the rest of her supposedly “inferior” supply, she patted the grass on the side of her that was currently unoccupied. “Sit with me, won’cha? You look positively tuckered.”

This acknowledgement of his own pitiful state only served to sour his expression further, but he obeyed, nonetheless, by plopping down next to her with an unavoidable squish. He nearly allowed another shiver to wrack his frame, but managed to subdue it.

“I can’t work with this stuff ‘til it dries, so I guess that means…we have some time to talk.”

“That’s the very reason I came to see you. And then you made me do this.”

She laughed. “Get used to bein’ wet. We’re always wet in Lari. As proof, it looks like we’re gonna get a storm soon.”

As if to confirm her words, he turned to eye the thick grey clouds rolling in over the water with increasing dismay. That was the way of seaside weather. It had been a clear day just a half hour ago. “Shouldn’t we head inside?”

“Nah.” She folded her hands in her lap. “‘Tis always the coolest just before the rain starts. We have to enjoy it while it lasts.”

He brushed wet hair from his eyes. “ _Do_ we?”

“Yes! If you’re gonna live in our town, then ya hafta learn how things work.”

“Well, in that case…” he fell backwards into the cool grass and tucked his hands beneath his head, “I guess I better get started conforming. Might as well dry off before the rain comes.”

Katrine turned to look back at him. “You really are soaked, Gascon.”

“And I have _you_ to thank. But I suppose it’s worth it for the sake of better quality…whatever that stuff is.” His eyes locked onto hers, and she looked away.

Brushing a few of her curls behind one ear, she asked, “Where are ya from, Gascon? I don’t think I ever asked.”

He was silent for a moment as he thought this over. “Castaway Cove.” It was the first thing that came to mind.

“Your father wasn’t able to catch enough fish there?”

He pushed himself up onto his elbows. “Huh? Oh, no.”

“I guess fishin’ never really suited ya, then? I mean, otherwise I’d assume ya’d take on the family business. My brother tried to, but…well, with what happened to Father, Mother forbid him.”

“Oh.” Family business, huh? He had _tried_ to carry on the family business, but had been told in nearly as many words that he wasn’t good enough.

“Can we see your father’s fishin’ boat from here?” Katrine asked, her attention directed out across the choppy, grey water and the dozen or so small boats bobbing in the distance. From shore, they looked hardly any bigger than the miniature sailing boat Gascon used to have for bath time when he was little.

“No, uh…he’s probably too far out now,” Gascon said. “I…I don’t think I’d make a very good fisherman. I’m better with…mechanical things, I suppose. At least, I’ve fixed up a few things for Jameson anyway.” He sighed at the encroaching clouds above, which had already begun to advance beyond the shoreline. There was really no need to admit that his assessment of his own fishing abilities was not merely hypothetical.

“That’s good. That’s very important, actually. It’s better than becomin’ a pirate anyway.” She turned to him and winked. “Now, _me_ , on the other hand…”

“Oh, sure, you’d make an excellent pirate. One smile would be enough to get men the world over to hand over their loot. Look what you can get _me_ to do.”

She gave him a smack on the arm. “You love it, an’ you know it.”

He sat up straighter to better defend himself in case of further assault. “I’m sure I’ll also love staying in bed tomorrow with the flu. Then at least I won’t be expected to lift a finger. I only hope that’ll inspire you to make _me_ some medicine.”

She swatted at him again. “A little water never hurt anyone.”

“You ever heard of drowning?” He released a long sigh of anticipation. “Yes, I think some hot soup will be the best way to ease your regrets. Should I leave you to fetch the ingredients?”

She attempted to trick him by switching hands, but he blocked neatly. “Since I’m such a harsh an’ cruel master, surely ya must know I’d make _you_ gather the supplies.”

“I’d hardly recognize you if you didn’t.”

Katrine ceased her attack, a grin still present on her face that counteracted any other attempt to sound stern. “You can really be a jerk sometimes, Gascon.”

“I know.”

“Didja really hate collectin’ lichen for me that much?”

“Yes. But you’re the only one I’d do it for. Does that make you feel any better?”

“It does.”

The deep growl of thunder was the first sign the promised rain had arrived, a rumble so low, it was enough to rattle their very bones. The second was the curtain of rain that followed. When he had originally noticed the impending storm, Gascon had figured he couldn’t get any wetter. He could, however, get a lot colder.

“Now we’re even,” he said, staring back at her and the previously long curls now flattened against her head like a wet towel.

“Do ya wanna keep bein’ sassy or do ya wanna find shelter?” she said.

“I can do this as long as you can.”

Rolling her eyes, Katrine grabbed her basket in one hand and began tugging on his arm with the other. They headed back to town in a careful jog through the muddying grass, though the potholed streets of town weren’t faring much better with the downpour. With how deep some of the puddles had gotten, he was grateful he was wearing boots.

It was the awning in front of Lari’s local bakery that offered the shelter they sought. While they could not prevent the rain from splashing off the street and back onto their legs, at least here their heads were protected, and the warm, sweet smell of freshly-baked bread almost made him forget how cold he was. His stomach growled at the delicious aroma, but he could do no more than crave what the shop offered. He was becoming quite familiar with what it was like not to be able to afford what you wanted.

Gascon began to wring moisture from his clothes with quivering hands. All the while, Katrine remained frozen at his side, staring at the rain as if in a trance. She seemed wholly unaware of the puddle forming at her feet from the rainwater dripping from her dress.

“Herman never helps me with anythin’,” she said at last. “He always says,” she lowered her voice in a failed attempt to mimic the older boy’s far deeper one, “‘I have my own work’ or ‘I wanna relax when I’m off’ or…or ‘no one helps me do _my_ job’. He won’t do anythin’ I ask of him, even little things.”

Gascon stared at her. “Wh-what’s all this about?”

She shook her head, sending flecks of water in various directions. “Oh, it’s…it’s nothin’, really. Just silly stuff.”

He tore his gaze away once he realized just how much he was gaping at her. When she failed to elaborate further, he asked, “So, this Herman fellow…is he your…cousin or something?”

“Herman…?” she repeated, her eyes glazed with far off thoughts before they focused again. “Oh, no, he’s…” she paused, “he’s just a friend o’ the family. That’s all.”

“Oh.”

She kicked one foot against the cobblestoned street, her fingers lacing together at her waist. “It’s just that…we’ve known him for a long time, ya see, an’…he’s mainly friends with my brother, so he’s around a lot. Probably…probably to get away from his own home. Oldest o’ six. I suspect it must be hard to get noticed in a house like that, the big, silent oaf.” She attempted to laugh, but it came out hollow. “When he’s around, I just ask him sometimes to help with a few chores I have trouble doin’ on my own. He just…never helps me. That’s all I was sayin’.”

“I don’t _really_ mind helping you with stuff,” Gascon said. “I was only joking.”

She nodded, though her eyes remained on the ground at her feet. “Mmm.”

When she said no more, he leaned against the large shop window behind him, finding no other means of waiting out the storm than to resume his earlier vigil over the downpour. Thunder continued to rumble overhead, though scarcely could it be heard over the strength of the rain hammering against the rooftops and the awning above them. He didn’t quite like weather nearly as much as he thought he would. He had honestly believed last week’s hurricane would be the end of him. Clearly the panic must have been plain upon his face, for the innkeeper had attempted to hug him in an ill-advised effort to comfort the frightened teen. Who did she think she was? She wasn’t his mother.

He went stiff when something warm touched his cheek. Even once it had left him, he didn’t immediately look over, but remained frozen to the spot as if under a spell. He would have been too slow anyway, for by now, Katrine was already darting off into the rain. She looked back just once, but it was enough to tell that she was blushing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Random note: I like the idea that Swaine invented the pickpocket pistol, even though this is not canonically true, as the Wizard’s Companion states that such a thing already existed. (I own a physical copy of the Wizard’s Companion and have read the whole thing. I have no life.) Nevertheless, I just like the idea that Swaine, being from Hamelin and all, is the original inventor of a pistol that can be used to steal and open locks. It shows that he is intelligent, but used his skills for rather immoral reasons while he was living away from home.
> 
> I mean, clearly he’s not quite at that point yet. But he will be. Eventually. He just hasn’t needed to use his gun for more nefarious purposes…yet.
> 
> Also, keeping with the seagull theme, the name Herman comes from Heermann’s gull.


	10. Red-Hot Terror of the High Seas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first half of this chapter is new, while the second half includes pre-existing scenes that have been greatly altered. I’d also like to mention that the story is finally starting to progress beyond where I left off all those years ago when it got abandoned. Isn’t that exciting?

Of all the exciting things that Gascon had fantasized about doing ever since he was a little boy, ruling an empire had never been one of them. Wealth and authority had never held supreme interest to him, nor did the long and unwelcome lectures his father had subjected him to on all the many responsibilities that came with ruling a vast city like Hamelin. His future duties all sounded painfully boring, and in a way, it provided the young prince with some possible insight into why his father was so serious all the time.

Many would say that royalty had anything they could possibly want. And in a lot of ways, Gascon would have to admit that this was unequivocally true. But if there was one thing that those of higher breeding sorely lacked, it was freedom.

While he had once looked forward to his future as the next Emperor of Hamelin like one does the pulling of a tooth, Gascon had practically begged Jameson to allow him to join the crew on one of their more exciting jobs. Every time, he had been told that he was still too young, too inexperienced, along with the apparent need to protect “Gascon’s noggin”, for he was the only member of the team, save for the old man himself, in possession of any sort of mechanical abilities.

After several weeks of pleading, Jameson had finally conceded. They would be leaving for a bounty hunt before sunrise the next morning, and Gascon was welcome to come along.

The fact that Gascon normally slept in later than most residents of Lari was irrelevant this particular morning thanks to a very important loophole. The sheer excitement alone was enough to prevent him from sleeping too soundly that night at all, meaning he was awake and ready to rush out into the brisk morning air before Jameson’s ship, the _Stalwart Orca_ , could leave without him.

After he had made a complete and utter fool of himself during his failed efforts at becoming a fisherman several months prior, Gascon had not believed himself too eager to be back aboard a boat of any size in the foreseeable future. But this time, he would not be responsible for any of the sailing or heavy lifting. This time, he was here for adventure, plain and simple. And any opportunity to use his gun for more than mere target practice was certainly a welcome change of pace, as well.

It would take the better part of the day to arrive in the general location where all manner of mysterious sightings had originated. Something had been heating up the water and killing off all the fish in a several square mile radius. The whole trip had been funded by the richest man in Lari, Jameson had explained to him, who owned an entire fleet of fishing vessels and didn’t wish to see his particular fishing grounds spoiled by the monster.

Jameson had speculated that this was the secret spot where the man’s fishing fleet caught a particularly rare variety of fish called the ruby snapper, the very same that had made him so rich. If this was true, it would have been a highly coveted piece of information in Lari, and the old man had only told him this in the strictest of confidence. The secret was certainly safe with him. Gascon couldn’t care less about fishing, though he knew of one fishing captain in particular whom he’d love to tease with said information. At least, that would have been the case if the man in question didn’t look as if he could snap Gascon in two.

Gascon spent a good portion of the voyage listening to Jameson tell story after story of his previous adventures, both on land and on the high seas. The only monster of comparable ferocity Gascon himself had ever encountered was the haunted candelabra on the Tombstone Trail, but he had played the smallest role out of anyone in taking it down, with Marcassin himself dealing the fatal blow. Not to mention Gascon could provide no reasonable explanation as to how he had even visited such a place, which so happened to be clear across the ocean on an entirely different continent, so he settled for listening to the old man’s tales in stunned silence. If he managed to experience even _half_ as much as Jameson had in his lifetime, he’d count himself to be quite accomplished indeed.

Jameson even had a special harpoon gun at his disposal that could launch harpoons much farther, and with much more force, than any other. Like Gascon’s pistol, Jameson had made the modifications himself, the already impressive weapon remaining to this day a work in progress. It was no wonder the man was considered a legend.

Once they had drawn close to the last place where the monster had been spotted, far enough out to sea that the coastline was but a distant smudge on the horizon, Jameson had gone off to see to the final preparations for the impending encounter, leaving Gascon with little else to do but wander about. The old man had already made it quite clear that he was exempt from the usual responsibilities of the rest of his crew. While the former prince could only speculate as to why Jameson had seemingly placed him higher than that of a common laborer, he thought he knew why.

It was obvious, really. Gascon was going places. His abilities weren’t commonplace outside of Hamelin. And if his skills weren’t common, then why should he be treated like he was?

Of course, it was only natural for others to question that. It hardly surprised him that Reese, as Jameson’s second-in-command, would often direct stern looks at the newest crew member’s idleness, to which Gascon would return a smirk that demonstrated strong will in equal measure. He was here for the bounty hunt. That was all.

Eventually, all they could do was wait. Even if the monster was still around, the area in which they had to search was not exactly small. With nothing else to do, Gascon retreated below deck for a much needed nap. Well, it was not so much a true nap as an opportunity to rest his tired eyes before the impending battle. Looking back, he should have probably forced himself to get more sleep the night before, but the anticipation of hunting down a giant sea monster had made that all but impossible.

He had hardly been gone for more than fifteen minutes when Reese found him lounging in a hammock in the crew’s quarters. Through half-lidded eyes, Gascon watched with growing irritation as the older boy marched towards him and planted both hands on his waist like a parent about to dish out divine punishment.

“Whatta ya think yer doin’?”

Gascon barely tried to suppress a yawn. “What’s it _look_ like I’m doing?”

“I know this is your first bounty hunt, but that’s no excuse for slackin’. Everyone needs to pull their weight. No exceptions.”

“Jameson said I didn’t have to.”

“Get back up on deck, Gascon.” It was clear by the tightening of Reese’s jaw that he was losing his patience.

Gascon tucked both arms behind his head, as if to further drive home the fact that he wasn’t budging. “Look at it this way. _I’m_ going to be the only one well-rested, while you lot will be tired and unprepared. So why don’t you stop worrying about what _I’m_ doing and mind your own business?” With that, he turned his back to Reese and closed his eyes.

Behind him, he could hear the older boy muttering to himself under his breath in defeat, the sound of footsteps indicating that he had given up. The way he saw it, as long as _Jameson_ wasn’t the one complaining, he could do whatever he pleased. It would be easier on them both if Reese just accepted this fact as soon as possible.

Gascon couldn’t help but fall in and out of slumber as the boat rocked on the waves, even as the footsteps of the other crew members pounded overhead. The novelty of his current situation was already starting to lose its earlier potency in keeping him alert, but if this monster really was as vicious as everyone feared, he couldn’t imagine its arrival would go unnoticed.

He was proven right when the sound of yelling jolted him upright, just in time for him to be thrown bodily to the floor as the boat was nearly shoved all the way over onto its side. Whatever possessed the strength necessary to almost capsize their ship, it must have been truly massive indeed. Heart pounding, Gascon clung to the closest semblance of solid ground as the ship righted itself beneath him. Even in the dim lighting, the air seemed to be filled with a strange mist, and he could only wonder if he was still fuzzy-headed from his recent nap. Only once he had confirmed that he would not be knocked off his feet again did he dare to pick himself up and dash for the stairs leading back above deck, his pistol already in hand.

The sight he had assumed awaited him was entirely absent. The expected monster was not in sight. Instead, the very sky itself was obscured by a thick haze, the sun reduced to a distant and foggy light that Gascon feared with growing unease was not responsible for the increasing temperature of the air around him.

The other crew members were divided between staring into the water or pacing in idle agitation, harpoon guns, crossbows, and other assorted weaponry at the ready. A reluctant glance over the railing to see for himself what had the others so enthralled caused Gascon to retreat backwards with enough speed that he nearly tripped over his own boots. The ocean water was boiling with about as much vigor as a pot of stew over a fire. He, for one, would have felt much better had a single person here known how to wield magic.

By the time it had become clear to him that what they were dealing with was no ordinary sea monster, everyone had opted for gathering in the center of the deck, as far from the agitated waters as possible, while Jameson called for everyone to remain calm. Finding Herman to be his nearest ally, the two exchanged concerned glances, while the former prince tightened his grip on his pistol. The object felt much too small, painfully inadequate for the job at hand.

Jameson, on the other hand, was the only one unperturbed, even as sweat shone on his brow in the humid heat. “A conflanguilla,” the old man said and shook his head as if what they were really dealing with was no more dangerous than an unruly child. “Haven’t seen one o’ them in over thirty years.” The man clapped his hands together, his voice rising in volume. “All right, boys. Get ready.”

The old man drew a curious sort of pipe from underneath his jacket. Sucking in a breath, he blew into the instrument with as much force as he could muster, producing a piercing whistle that made Gascon wince.

“What the heck is that?” he asked under his breath.

Herman answered in equally hushed tones. “The Horn of Discord. Drives sea monsters mad.”

“And we _want_ that?”

Never one for conversation, his bulky lump of a comrade merely shrugged.

Sure enough, a screech rang out that put the horn’s own din to shame as a monstrous form erupted from beneath the waves. Staring them down through the thickening shroud of steam was a massive eel, its fearsome head reaching nearly to the height of the ship’s highest mast. Its slick, ebony body pulsed with red-hot heat that could have put the very sun itself to shame.

His fellow crew members sprang into action, weapons at the ready, their years of experience propelling them to run towards the source of danger rather than the direction Gascon himself would have chosen had he not found himself glued to the spot, his limbs quaking so thoroughly that any attempts at precise aiming would be utterly futile. The creature hissed and spat as several arrows lodged into its thick hide, their size the equivalent of splinters in comparison. He had actually _asked_ to do this, hadn’t he? He reckoned it was too late to eat his words.

By now, Gascon had managed, through sheer idleness, to elude the sea monster’s notice, as he silently willed himself to stop being a bloody coward and _do_ something already. Blimey, his little brother had dealt the finishing blow to the demon inhabiting the Tombstone Trail. So what, he tried to tell himself. Unlike him, Marcassin knew magic. He’d certainly be a lot braver, too, if he possessed even half his younger sibling’s abilities.

But what was it he had always tried to remind himself when these doubts arose? Who needs magic when you have a gun? Well, his current situation blew that theory out of the water. Ha! What an idiot he was.

As if spurred by fate, the monstrous eel took note of the one person who had thus far failed to fight back and zeroed in on its next victim, its eyes blazing with an unnatural fire. Gascon swore, his earlier inaction set aside when he aimed his pistol at the monster and fired several times through the fog. Whatever bullets had managed to find their target were miniscule in comparison to the arrows already jutting from its side. If anything, he had only succeeded in identifying himself as easier prey. The eel opened its narrow jaws wide, revealing jagged and serrated teeth, and lunged for him.

The rest of the battle was a blur, which Gascon could barely recount even if he tried.

He meant to dive out of the way, though whether or not he had was up for debate. His successful evasion was more likely due to the quick thinking of Jameson himself, who had managed to lodge a particularly large and barbed harpoon from his own gun into the creature’s side, while the other end of the thick cord attached to the harpoon’s tail was tied without delay around the ship’s largest mast.

With the monster subdued, the rest of the crew finished the job within moments, before the eel could even think about snapping the mast or, even worse, capsizing the entire ship and sending everyone on board into the boiling waters below.

The thick steam enveloping the ship had just begun to dissipate, a clear sign that no further danger would be presenting itself. With no further need of his own meager assistance, Gascon had found himself limping below deck as they set sail back to Lari, his mind numb as he attempted to recall what had just transpired. Bruises, along with burns from any hot water that had managed to splash onto deck from the eel’s wild thrashing, were the main injuries that needed tending to, while Gascon’s sprained ankle was an anomaly considering how little he had contributed. It had probably happened when the eel had lunged for him. If he was to be wounded in battle, he only wished it could have been in a more heroic fashion.

Now that his first real adventure since the Tombstone Trail had come to a close, there was one truth that had become painfully obvious to him. Though he had spent a good portion of his life looking after his little brother, out of the two of them, it was clear that Marcassin was the more capable by far. The irony was not lost on him one bit.

* * *

Gascon was jarred awake early the next morning by a firm knock on his door, followed by the innkeeper’s vague message that “someone” was here to see him. His injured ankle was still sore from yesterday’s altercation, the bandage he had received shortly afterward doing little to help with the throbbing pain that had thus far failed to let up. As much as he would have liked to remain in bed all day, a second knocking at the door was enough to assure him that this would not be allowed.

That didn’t mean he couldn’t take his sweet time coming downstairs, his slight limp serving as the perfect excuse for his current apathy. Even so, it wasn’t long before he discovered that the “someone” who had come to visit him was none other than Katrine’s older brother, Reese. After their brief chat below deck yesterday, he was the last person Gascon wanted to see.

The older teen had awaited his arrival with crossed arms, his greeting coming in the form of a silent nod. “I just thought I’d come to check on ya. Make sure ya didn’t get hurt too badly yesterday. Jameson feels real bad for allowin’ ya to tag along on such a dangerous hunt.”

Gascon lifted his arms from his sides in a shrug, his eyes squinting in the bright morning light. “Well, I’m still alive, aren’t I?” He adjusted his weight to rest more thoroughly on his uninjured foot. “Just a sprained ankle. Nothing that shouldn’t heal up in a week or two.”

“Sure, it was just a sprained ankle _this_ time. But next time, ya might not be so lucky. This is why ya need to take these hunts more seriously. People die, ya know. Even _Jameson’s_ been known to lose a few over the years.”

Gascon rolled his eyes. “Yeah, I get it. I don’t need you to lecture me.”

“And _furthermore_ ,” Reese continued, shaking one finger at him in admonishment, “I don’t like the way ya’ve been takin’ advantage o’ Jameson’s good will. The old man’s always been lax when it comes to discipline. The least ya can do is show a little more respect.”

The former prince placed his hands on his waist and huffed. “Are you through? Because I’m really not interested in being scolded today. If Jameson sees fit to show me special treatment, then I figure that’s _his_ business. I bet you’re just jealous-”

Before he could finish, Reese asked a question he really hadn’t been expecting, but probably should have. “Why’ve ya been lyin’ to people, Gascon?”

Gascon stiffened. Shortly into the conversation, an uneasiness had taken root in the pit of his stomach that had since grown in strength the longer the older boy’s stern expression had failed to soften. Now that he thought about it, he had no idea how Reese had managed to track him here. No one was supposed to know he lived anywhere other than what he had told Katrine, with his quaint fisherman of a father in some obscure corner of Lari whose exact whereabouts were specifically chosen to remain elusive even to a lifetime resident of the seaside fishing community.

“And _what_ have I lied about?” Maybe the sudden accusation wasn’t referring to what he thought it was.

Reese advanced several steps forward. “Katrine told me that ya moved here with your father. So why are ya livin’ at the inn? You get in some sort o’ trouble? If ya think you can come to Lari an’ hide from yer problems, then ya’d best think again.”

Gascon scoffed at these wild speculations and crossed his arms. “You have a lot of nerve accusing me of things you know nothing about. I run errands for the innkeeper in my spare time. It helps my father and I pay the bills. What, do you want me to write my entire schedule down for you? It’ll make stalking me a bit easier.”

Reese tried multiple times to interrupt Gascon’s tirade, but was only successful when he opted instead for simply raising his voice. “Don’t insult me, kid. The innkeeper _told_ me ya live here, all by yourself. Maybe it’s none o’ my business why ya did it, but if ya ran away from home, ya’d best return there. Lari’s a small town. We don’t appreciate troublemakers here.”

Oh, she had, had she? Add her to the list of people who needed to keep their noses out of things that didn’t concern them. With his secret out in the open, it seemed he had no choice left but to defend his honor. “What makes you think I’m a troublemaker? I have my reasons, and I can assure you, they’re perfectly good ones.”

Reese nodded his head, though it was clear he wasn’t really listening. “Look, I’ll make a deal with ya. I know work can be hard to come by. I won’t tell Jameson, but only if ya stay away from Katrine.”

Gascon’s eyes narrowed at the apparent change in topic, and he voiced as much, “And what’s Katrine have to do with anything?”

“Because she’s engaged, that’s why. To my friend, Herman, if ya really must know. And it wouldn’t be such a problem if she didn’t have a habit o’ fallin’ for the wrong sort.” At his next words, Reese jabbed Gascon in the chest with one finger. “I don’t appreciate ya givin’ her the wrong ideas.”

Gascon’s heart skipped a beat at this revelation, and he swatted the other boy’s hand away. “ _I’m_ giving her the wrong ideas? It looks to me like _she_ is. I never knew she was engaged.” And to a guy who could have been mistaken for a boulder, no less. He’d ask what Herman had that he didn’t, but there was no need because the answer was simple. Nothing. Herman possessed absolutely _nothing_ that Gascon didn’t have in spades. Personality. Good looks. A functioning brain.

“Well, now ya know. So stay away from her, or there will be consequences.” Reese turned and stormed off, the conversation at an end whether Gascon liked it or not, the younger boy’s mind still reeling with how quickly his morning had declined. To think, he had just gotten out of bed not fifteen minutes ago.

Without thinking, the former prince stomped his foot, the injured one, and had to suppress a yelp at the sharp pain that shot up his leg. Just who did this guy think he was? He had a perfectly good reason for being here. It was just a shame he couldn’t tell anyone.

Not that anyone would even believe him if he did. A former prince of Hamelin, eh? That would only create more questions than it answered. Such as why he was even sleeping in a drafty old inn that smelled like fish when he had a perfectly comfortable palace to return to. He used to be bloody royalty! Why was he even stuck talking to idiots like Reese in the first place?

Now that was the _real_ enigma.

* * *

Seeing as Gascon had a habit of disobeying even the Emperor of Hamelin himself, he certainly wasn’t going to take heed of any idle threats Reese decided to hurl his way. But there was some new information whose validity he needed to confirm, and he preferred to hear the truth from the source.

That morning, he had slipped a note under Katrine’s front door once he was certain Reese would be away from the house asking her to meet him later that night. It was to be a secret meeting, and he had hoped she had found some decent excuse for being out at this hour.

It was now growing increasingly dark, with the sinking sun looming ever lower behind him. It was just as the stars began to peek out over the sea where the sky was darkest and most distant that he started to question whether or not his note had even been receieved. Even by footpath, it had been a tiresome climb to the grassy expanse high upon the clifftop. It was like an entirely different world up here. It was open and flat, the town below anything but. Up here, night time came just a bit later when there was nothing but the horizon to block the sun’s exit.

The crunching of gravel was the first indication that someone was approaching, Katrine’s head the first thing to make an appearance as she ascended the steps leading above town.

“I’m sorry if I’m late,” she said, the rhythm of her breathing hardly any worse for wear. She had lived in Lari her whole life. It was no wonder the endless stairs didn’t affect her. “Why’d ya want to meet me here?”

“I…I just wanted to see you,” was his simple reply. He wasn’t ready to get to the point. Not yet.

“I see.” He couldn’t help but feel that she wasn’t convinced.

The pair sat on the grass, while the stars moved in to dapple the entire sky in their glory. At a loss for how to address what was _really_ on his mind, their talk covered the many mundane things of life. Her mother’s condition had declined over the past few days, but on the upside, her health was still better than it was two months ago. He told her about his most recent outing with Jameson and his crew.

He told her his fisherman of a father was fine. Apparently she hadn’t heard the truth yet.

Eventually, their discussion trailed off almost in unison, and they listened to the slow cricket’s song while he stared down at the grass and she pulled the petals from a flower she had plucked from nearby.

He supposed he couldn’t put it off forever.

“There’s actually something I’ve been meaning to ask you. About Herman.”

Katrine looked over, the flower stem still held in one hand. By now, not a single petal had been spared. “Herman? Didn’t I already tell ya about him?”

“I was curious how you knew him. That’s all.” It was a small town. The fact that she knew the boy, especially considering he was friends with her brother, made it no surprise. Nevertheless, he needed to find some way of making her elaborate on the matter.

“Like I told ya before, we’ve known him since we were kids. He has a lot of siblings, so he used to come over to our house a lot. It was the only place he was noticed and could eat a full meal without havin’ to share it with his younger brothers and sisters. He spent so much time with us, he became like a member of the family. Even Mother saw him as a son.”

That definitely wasn’t the end of it. Not if what Reese had said was true. As if in confirmation, the flower stem, seemingly forgotten, was clutched even more tightly in her grip.

“And that’s it, then? He’s just a friend?”

Katrine frowned at him. “What are ya gettin’ at, Gascon?”

He shrugged. “I’m not getting at anything. I was just asking about this guy you’ve apparently known your whole life. But you said he’s just a friend. So I guess that’s it.” When she didn’t take the bait, he glanced sidelong at her. “Right?”

She sighed. “If ya really must know, my family decided, once I turn sixteen, that is, that I should…” she paused, her voice breaking, “I should marry him.”

So it _was_ true. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“At first, I didn’t think it was relevant. It’s not like I can’t still talk to whomever I like, boys included. And then I eventually decided…” she shook her head, her lips pressed into a tight line, “that I didn’t want ya to know.”

“Isn’t sixteen a bit young?”

“Lots o’ girls get married at that age, Gascon. And it’s not like I have much choice. He-he works hard, and if we got married, it would help us with our financial troubles. Mother could get the treatment she needs. My brother could move on with his life. And I…” her gaze fell, and she wrapped her arms about herself, “I wouldn’t need to find work outside the house anymore.” Her voice dropped further, until it was as soft as the whispers of the breeze. “So…ya see, it’s a _good_ thing. I…should feel lucky.”

He continued to stare at her, but she made no sign she even felt his gaze. A lone dog howled in the distance, and his heart fell. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to,” he said, though his words were devoid of any real strength. “There has to be other ways of taking care of your mother, and-”

Even now, she refused to meet his gaze. “Don’t, Gascon.”

“Why doesn’t your brother take responsibility? Why is _he_ allowed to just run away?”

“Reese _has_ taken care of Mother. And me. He’s done it for years. And soon, it will be his turn to finally live his own life and think about _himself_ for once.” At last, their eyes locked. “Ya act like this is such a terrible thing, like Herman’s some mean brute or somethin’. I’ve known him my whole life. He’s a nice boy. Just…”

“It’s just that you don’t really want this, and they’re forcing you.”

She shook her head, her long curls bouncing on her shoulders. “They are not forcin’ me to do anythin’, Gascon! This is still _my_ decision. I care for my family, and sometimes that means makin’ sacrifices-”

“Well, why don’t they make sacrifices for _you_?”

Katrine pursed her lips, a dangerous fire newly kindled in her eyes that warned that one might be burned if they didn’t watch their step. “Look, did ya want to hear the truth or did ya just want to start an argument?”

He looked away when it became more than apparent that this path, if continued, would take him nowhere he wished to be. He threw his arms into the air. “Fine, fine, I got it! Not another word.”

Just like that, they fell back into an uncomfortable void of silence that felt so much more powerful at nighttime, whether or not the insects were chirping, and they always did here. There were no insect noises in Hamelin, nor birds, whether they be songbirds or the gulls with their harsh, screeching cries. And certainly not the breathing of the ocean waves as they crashed upon the rocky cliff base with a baffling rhythm only they could follow. Hamelin’s song was closer to a cacophony, of voices and hissing steam and the groaning of great wheels. Even the artificial tinkling of fountains was soulless compared to the pure and wild life of the outside.

His home of fifteen years lay somewhere beyond the ocean, and he felt he had left it behind an equal number of years ago rather than a fraction of one. His heart felt heavy in silence like this, as much so now as when he was alone.

She was the first to go with a silent nod of farewell, while he remained for a time longer, to think under the stars while the rest of the world slept.

Gascon left the hill sometime later when not even a single window remained lit below and wandered along the meandering footpath leading back to the narrow streets of Lari. By now, even the night insects had fallen into slumber, and his footfalls left echoes in their wake that were almost jarring against the backdrop of silence. From out of the stillness, something he had said earlier returned to him with full force, like a specter swooping in out of the darkness.

_“Why is_ he _allowed to just run away?”_

It wasn’t until now that he became painfully aware of the hypocrisy of his words.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I replayed Ni no Kuni for the first time in five years, I found it endlessly amusing that Swaine stomps his foot when he’s particularly annoyed, something I had completely forgotten about. And it wasn’t just isolated to when he was brokenhearted, either. There’s childish, en’t it?
> 
> For the name of the eel, I combined the words “conflagration” (a great fire) with “anguilla”, the latter word being a genus containing freshwater eels. Sure, the creature in the story was clearly a saltwater eel, but…I doubt it matters too much. I’m not good at naming things, so I’ll take what I can get.
> 
> As usual, please review and let me know how you’re enjoying the story so far. Ta, mun!


	11. There Will Be Consequences

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Minor swear words incoming. I’m not one to use swear words myself, but seeing as Gascon/Swaine does have a bit of a potty mouth, it seemed like I had no choice. Otherwise, his dialogue would come off as pretty weak with such words as “heck” and “dang”. Dang it all to heck! (Also, I’m well aware that “dingus” is not a particularly strong insult….)

The first indication that something was amiss was the furtive glances Reese and Jameson exchanged the moment Gascon walked into the Swift Solutions office. They were the same sort of looks he had seen pass between his father and the Captain of the Boarriors after he had accidentally started a small fire in the palace kitchens when he was nine. The resulting punishment had left a lasting scar on his memory that he didn’t suspect he’d ever forget.

While Reese didn’t attempt to hide a pointed glare as he left the building, the old man behind the desk had since dropped his attention to the array of papers scattered across the desk’s surface. Jameson folded his arms in front of him, his next words preceded by a heavy sigh. “I’m sorry, my boy, but I’m gonna have to let ya go.”

Fifteen years with a strict father had awarded Gascon ample understanding of the phrase “judgement would be swift”. But even this was sudden.

He replayed the words over and over in his head to ensure he had indeed heard correctly, but every rendition arrived at the same conclusion. Maybe he’d wake up in a few moments and realize this was all just a dream. But until then, he might as well play along.

“I-I don’t get it. What exactly have I done?” Oh, he knew exactly what this was all about. But he knew better than to admit to anything unless he absolutely had to.

“Ya lied to me, boy. That’s what ya’ve done. If I had known ya had run away from home, I woulda never hired ya. I can’t in good conscience enable such shameful behavior. Ya best return home to your parents.”

Gascon inwardly cursed the one responsible. So Reese _had_ squealed on him, after all. If this really was just a dream, he invited his subconscious to wake up. Anytime now. “But th-this isn’t fair. I was doing a good job, wasn’t I? You’ve said so yourself. Why should it matter-”

“I did, boy, I did. Don’t think I haven’t put a lot o’ thought into my decision. Ya’ve got a lot o’ promise, kiddo. But that doesn’t excuse what ya did. I could get in a lotta trouble helpin’ a runaway.” Jameson shook his head, his eyes squeezed shut as if in physical pain. “I’m disappointed in ya. I really am.”

That last statement cut Gascon like a knife. It was painfully ironic that this was the very same outcome he had expected months ago. But after Jameson had showered him with praise over his inventiveness mere _days_ after meeting him, he had dismissed these concerns as mere pessimism. But it wasn’t really pessimism if it came true, now was it?

Was he really doomed to let down every single person he met?

Gascon tried once more to appeal to the old man’s mercy. “You don’t understand. I didn’t leave home because I did something wrong. I swear. I had no choice. I never intended to lie to you.” He redirected his gaze to the man’s right when his expression failed to soften. Jameson had never looked at him that way before. He looked like Father. Just like every bloody time he failed to live up to his expectations. “I-I wish you’d believe me.”

The old man considered him in silence a moment longer before inclining his head in a slight nod. “I might be willin’ to reconsider if ya can give me the truth for why ya ran away from home. But I mean it.” He shook one gnarled finger at him. “The truth. No more lies, ya hear.”

Gascon’s mouth worked to find an answer. Even with this small ounce of compassion granted to him, he realized with chilling clarity that there was nothing he could actually say that would change Jameson’s mind. How could he tell this man who he really was? At this point, such a bold claim would only serve to make the matter worse. Even if his real identity _had_ been something he was willing to divulge, it seemed doubtful Jameson would even believe the truth if he heard it.

“Look, why can’t you just take my word for it?” With growing horror, he heard himself speaking without thinking, yet unable to stop himself even as his voice rose in both pitch and volume that mirrored the desperation in his heart. “I swear, I didn’t do anything! This is no one’s business but my own! If I was just a year or two older, this wouldn’t matter, now would it?”

“That’s quite enough, boy.”

He wasn’t sure if it was the utterance of his name or the stern look in the man’s eyes, but somehow, he just managed to regain enough control of his senses to reign himself in. This was starting to turn into one of those arguments he used to have with his father. At this realization, the fight died down inside him as suddenly as a bucket of water poured over an open flame, replaced instead with harsh, unforgiving defeat. As much as he wished to smooth over his recent outburst, he decided it was best not to say another word. Knowing him, he would only make the situation worse.

Gascon left Jameson’s office, his mind still numb from the shock. How quickly things could change when fate willed it. Every ounce of success, gone in an instant. And now, he had to start all over again. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. Everything had been going so well for him, up until-

His hands clenched into fists. _“There will be consequences”,_ eh? Well, he’d see about that.

Reese hadn’t gone very far by the time Gascon managed to track him down, the soreness in his injured ankle doing little to slow him down.

“Oi, dingus, what the hell is your problem? What I do with my life is none of your damn business! You had no right to tell anyone!”

Reese turned to face him with a slowness that would have been unnerving had Gascon been in any other mood. “We agreed ya wouldn’t talk to Katrine anymore,” he said, his voice low. “Ya didn’t hold up yer end of the bargain.”

“I didn’t agree to anything. _You_ did.” Without thinking, Gascon shoved him as hard as he could. Even then, Reese was merely taken aback by a couple paces, but he otherwise came nowhere close to being knocked over.

“Ya don’t wanna mess with me, kid.”

“Am I supposed to be scared, then?” Gascon bridged the gap between them once more by advancing several more steps. “What are you going to do, you bloody coward! I bet you’re all hot air, you piece of-”

Reese had punched him in the face before Gascon had even seen it coming. The blow was enough to cause him to lose his balance and send him falling onto his backside. In shock, he wiped a trickle of something warm from his upper lip, leaving a dark crimson stain on his sleeve.

“Just take my advice, kid. Go home before ya make an even bigger fool o’ yourself.” Without a second look, Reese walked away, leaving Gascon sitting in the middle of the street, breathing heavily, but otherwise speechless.

Had he still been a prince, no one would have dared lay so much as a finger on him. Just one of the many immunities afforded royalty. As if he really needed another reminder that he was definitely not a prince anymore.

As if it wasn’t already abundantly clear that, without his former title, he was absolutely nobody.

* * *

Another advantage of being a prince, Gascon had learned, was that one was never made to endure aches and stiffness beyond any reasonable means. If anything needed lifting or any other sort of shift in its position, there were servants for that. Stairs need not be climbed when the object of one’s desire could be fetched for them. Even dressing oneself was usually done with assistance, or it would have been, if Gascon hadn’t so often left his chambers at times he wasn’t meant to.

Pain in life was natural and to be expected, but royalty got to avoid most of it. But he wasn’t royalty anymore, and that was enough to signify that all physical labor now fall to him. Now that he was no longer welcome in Jameson’s employ, and with the prior knowledge that Lari’s main industry of fishing was also beyond his miserable abilities, he was now given no choice but to return to patrolling the streets of the cliff side village in search of work of any kind.

It had taken just a day to confirm that offering his services as an inventor was futile. Outside of Hamelin, his mechanical abilities were nowhere near as desirable as he had hoped. Jameson had clearly been an anomaly. And he had already blundered that opportunity just as he feared he would any other.

Although he had chosen his earlier employment with care, his standards had quickly dwindled at roughly the same rate as his guilders. As many possibilities as he had once believed to exist in the world, there were clearly very few good ones, all of which, regardless of their quality, ended with a frightening inevitability, for one reason or another. He had hoped his black eye had been the one thing preventing people from wishing to hire him, but it became clear once the blemish had eventually faded from his face that this was not the case. Apparently the problem rested solely with him and him alone.

As a result, he had come to wonder if one’s role needed to fancy you just as much as you fancied it. And as Gascon laid awake until late into the night, his body stiff and sore from the day’s labors, he mused over the possibility that there really _was_ no place for him in this world.

And would it even matter if the opposite was true? Either way, how could he ever compete when his little brother was destined to become a Great Sage _and_ an Emperor? He could scour the globe if he chose, but nothing he ever did could possibly come close. Their father might have been right, after all. What would _he_ ever amount to?

Summer passed him by, followed by an autumn that was certainly not a surprise for anyone who hadn’t grown up in a city devoid of seasons. Considering he was _not_ one of those people, he had to wonder just how cold it was planning on getting when winter was supposed to be the coldest season of all.

A mere month or so since losing his job with Jameson was enough to make him feel like an old man as he hobbled down the stairs of the Cat’s Cradle on yet another morning that had arrived far too soon, more akin to a walking corpse than anything else. In fact, he had begun to theorize that the supposed ghosts and ghouls of the Tombstone Trail were not actually members of the undead at all, but merely tired people worn out from too much work. Soon enough, he’d become one, too. He was sure of it.

It was later that very same evening, the only time of day that actually felt relatively warm, and the only time he didn’t want it to, that Gascon found himself trudging up a particularly steep incline he swore hadn’t been there when he had first passed this way an hour prior. He would never understand why anyone would build a town in such an inhospitable location when there were surely plenty of flat places to put it. The only consolation was the fact that his last odd job for the day was complete. All he had left was to report back to Mimi for the few measly guilders she thought his work deserved. She paid him less and less every day, he was certain of it.

With no other way to make the time go by, he settled for watching his lengthening shadow walking before him as if it thought him too slow and wished to reach their shared destination first. It was one of his few remaining possessions, he thought to himself with hardly a hint of amusement, verbal or otherwise.

Shortly upon Gascon’s arrival back at Mimi’s Delivery Service, a thin and wiry woman shuffled outside with such haste, it was as if she had been watching through the window for his return. Her hair had been done up in a hurried bun, just as it was every morning he saw her. Today, more stray curls hung in her face than usual, like limp springs that bounced with every step. She was one of the few people willing to give him anything resembling consistent employment. He had a feeling she only tolerated him because he was also one of the few people willing to put up with her.

“How long does it take to deliver three bolts of fabric? You’re late, like usual, ya know.” She planted her fists on her thin waist, in much the same manner as a certain maid who went by the name of Hilda. And like Hilda, she was all talk. At least, the broom she was known to wield had yet to make contact with him, despite how often she shook it at him.

He suspected he could learn to teleport between locations within seconds, and she would still say the very same thing. There was no pleasing some people. If his options hadn’t already become as scarce as her charm, he would have quit ages ago. He drew in a long breath through his nostrils before he trusted himself well enough to respond. “Mrs. Marina’s place is clear on the other side of town. I had to walk up six flights of stairs to get there.” He didn’t exactly count, but he doubted she ever had either. “Trust me, that stuff wasn’t getting delivered any faster.”

The woman’s chin tilted up as she studied him. “Stairs? There are no stairs between Mrs. Marina’s house and my own. Where did ya even _take_ that delivery?”

It was now his turn to pause, and he glanced back over his shoulder, as if he could confirm from this distance the accuracy of his efforts. “I brought it to the place with the dolphin weathervane. The old woman there thanked me for it and everything. You said Mrs. Marina was old, right? Did I get that wrong-”

Mimi pursed her thin lips and shook her head with enough vigor that a few more strands of her springy hair popped free. “Not a dolphin, I said the house with the _whale_ on the weathervane, ya stupid boy! Ya musta taken the delivery to Ms. Bertha. Her mind’s been goin’ the way o’ low tide for years. She’ll take anything ya give her, no questions asked.”

Gascon crossed his arms with a sigh. “Fine, I’ll get it back and take it to the _real_ Mrs. Marina. All right?” So help him if he didn’t throw the delivery right into the ocean. What’s that? Delivered to the wrong place again? So sorry.

Her eyebrows climbed upwards upon her brow so quickly, he half wondered if they had been launched clear from her forehead, never to be seen again. “I don’t think so! Ya’ve messed up for the last time! You’re not gettin’ a single guilder from me, either!”

Was she bloody serious? Money was the only reason he had suffered her presence for as long as he had. Take that away, and the time for being reasonable was over. Gascon’s eyes narrowed. “Oh, yes, you are! I’ve worked myself to the bone all day for you! What about all the other deliveries I made? Oi, where are you going? I’m still talking to you!”

Mimi had retreated through her doorway, and when she emerged back out into the open, she had her ragged, old broom clutched in both hands, granting her a striking resemblance to a witch. And not merely the female wizard kind of witch, either. More like the kind that ate children and turned unsuspecting victims into toads. He had never seen her use that broom for actual sweeping.

“Are you seriously threatening me with that again?” he continued, though he made sure to retreat several paces. “One of these days, I’d really like to see you use it.” Of course, he certainly didn’t mean _today_. Perhaps he should have specified…

“Mrs. Marina’s been a loyal customer since my husband was lost at sea, and I can’t afford to lose her now! I shoulda known this is what I’d get for hirin’ rabble like you!” She stepped closer. “If ya really want to see what I can do with this, I suggest ya say one more word.”

He did. And since he was feeling generous, he spared her a lot more than just one. “Are you sure the sea’s the reason your husband never came back?”

Gascon took off running as soon as she lunged for him with an enraged shriek, his sore legs feeling suspiciously better now that he had need of them again.

His pace didn’t slow until he was well beyond earshot of the woman and further disparaging remarks concerning his intelligence and rank in life, though depending on how long he had been able to hear her, he had a sneaking suspicion she had pursued him part of the way. It only took him another fifteen minutes of walking, not including the break he had taken to catch his breath, until he had reached the inn.

Trudging inside, Gascon reached into his pocket and pulled out his last five coins, which he placed down on the counter before him. Now that the day was nearly at an end, he had begun, once again, to feel like a human anchor. He would have liked very much to collapse on his bed and remain there for at least the next month or so. “This is all I have right now,” he told the innkeeper, even his very words sounding as heavy as he felt. “I hope it’s enough.”

The portly innkeeper studied what remained of his money, one arm resting on the counter, as if such a pitiful amount should even take much time to count. “I’m sorry, hon, but that simply won’t cut it this time. I’ve already lowered my rates enough for ya. I can’t accept any less.”

Gascon chewed on his lower lip as he processed what all this meant. She couldn’t really be serious, could she? Perhaps he had misheard. “Well, what do you expect me to do? Sleep outside?”

“Like I said, I’m sorry, but I’ve got a business to run. If that’s really all ya have, then I’m afraid I’m gonna have to turn ya away.” When he continued to stare at her in disbelief, she asked, “Ya have anythin’ ya need to get from your room before ya go?”

He used to have a small stash of guilders saved up from his time with Jameson beneath a loose floorboard. But if he had still been in possession of it, then this wouldn’t be happening, now would it? All that left him with was the clothes on his back and his pistol, which he always kept with him. Lari was a safe enough town, if you ignored the presence of certain people who enjoyed ruining other’s lives. But somehow, he just didn’t feel right leaving something that important behind.

He shook his head, snatching his few remaining guilders from the counter and returning them to his pocket in bitter acceptance. “No, nothing. I’ve got absolutely nothing left, no thanks to you.”

The woman’s apologetic frown failed to have any effect on his demeanor, and he left the inn behind without another word. By now, the sun was starting to set, though even its fading glow did not reach him here, where the shadow of the cliff had fallen over the soon to be sleeping town.

Half of him considered begging Mimi for what she owed him, but all sense of motivation had since fled from him, leaving him feeling empty. As if he needed to give her another reason to gloat. This had been a long time coming. He had adamantly denied it, had assured himself repeatedly that something was bound to happen, that fate would have no choice but to look favorably upon him eventually. But fate had nothing planned for him. He had no grand destiny. No greater calling, a purpose that only he and he alone could fulfill.

Long had he imagined what his life would have been like had he not been born into royalty. Back then, it seemed there was so much the world had to offer outside the confines of the palace’s bronze walls. He could have been an adventurer, he had often mused. He would see the world, his life defined by freedom, sweet, glorious freedom. A life free from responsibility, where he could do anything he wanted and go anywhere he pleased, his home wherever he happened to be at the time. He fantasized about all the wondrous things he would experience and the grand adventures he would overcome. And at the end of each day, he would sleep beneath the stars that Hamelin had so callously shut out.

One day, he would be the master of his own destiny.

But now that he was standing here in the deepening darkness, as the stars he had so often dreamed about blossomed overhead, he couldn’t see the possibilities that had once seemed all too real in his mind any more than he could pick out each cobblestone in the shadowed path beneath his feet. With the inevitable approach of nightfall, he was feeling anything but adventurous.

He chose a direction at random and started walking, the soreness in his limbs unmatched by the hollowness in his chest. What would his father say if he could see him now? If he could see what a failure his eldest truly was. He couldn’t even keep a job. He couldn’t even keep a roof over his head. Born the son of one of the wealthiest people in the world, now he was wandering the streets of some rundown little village in the middle of nowhere with naught but five measly guilders to his name. He had been given every advantage, life handed to him on a silver platter. How had he managed to screw that up? If anyone had fallen farther, he’d like to hear it.

Anything to prove that he wasn’t the biggest idiot to have ever lived.

By now, night had well and truly fallen. The few who had still been out had since returned home, leaving Gascon more alone than he ever could have possibly imagined. Lari could have been a ghost town, for all he knew, his heart sinking further with each and every window whose light was extinguished, one by one, until only the streetlamps and a sliver of moonlight remained.

He had nowhere to go. Nowhere. What was he going to do until morning? What was he going to do the night after and the night after that? The gravity of his current situation gripped his heart like an icy claw, and he felt his chest grow tight, his breathing constricting within him.

No, this was no time panic. He had to be sensible. He had to commit to a place to stay. He had no choice. He couldn’t stay awake forever, and the sooner he got used to this new arrangement, the better.

Blimey, this couldn’t really be it, could it?

A man stepped out from a nearby alley, nearly knocking Gascon over when they collided. Without missing a beat, the man snatched him by the arm, though he had his doubts that the gesture was intended to prevent the boy from losing his balance. The teen attempted to pull himself free, but the man held on firm. Granted time for a second, if unwelcome, perusal, Gascon noted that the man wore a long, brown trench coat, his stringy, unwashed hair framing a gaunt face.

“‘Tisn’t safe to be out so late, boy,” the man said, his voice low and raspy. The humor lacing his words only served to make the statement that much more threatening.

“Leave me alone,” Gascon warned. He just managed to keep his voice from shaking despite the hammering of his own heart. He had seen people like this during his outings in Hamelin, but only when he strayed from the main thoroughfares. The man exuded danger as much as he did a foul odor. He made sure his next words came out with more force. “Let go of me!”

Gascon tugged with renewed strength, and only then did the man release him, sending the boy reeling backwards with such force that no amount of flailing could prevent him from landing on his back in the street. Releasing a croaking sort of laugh that hinted at some long untreated disease, the man turned away and walked off just as the teen scrambled to his feet. Gascon took off in the opposite direction at double the pace as his earlier meandering, halting in his retreat when he realized that something was off. No clear evidence had presented itself to make him believe this. It was more of a sinking feeling that, perhaps, their brief encounter had been more than mere coincidence. This was confirmed when he checked his pocket to find that the few guilders he had remaining were missing.

Inwardly cursing his own carelessness as much as the one who had robbed him, he turned around, proceeding several steps back in the direction where the man had gone before he lost his nerve. What would he even do if he found the thief again? People like that were dangerous. For all he knew, the man had a knife, and…

Gascon had a gun. But could he really use it if it came down to it? He had never shot anyone before. It was just five guilders.

He only had _five_ guilders. What the hell was wrong with people?

He had nearly forgotten what kinds of criminals roamed the streets at this hour after every law-abiding citizen had retired to bed. What happened after dark had never been of much concern to him. Because he used to have a locked door to keep him safe at night. Because he used to live in a palace with armed guards. But security cost money. And without it, there was nothing between him and the outside world. There was nothing stopping some desperate lunatic from sneaking up on him while he slept, and…

The next alleyway he ducked into was, thankfully, unoccupied. Gascon collapsed in the corner farthest back, where the shadows were deepest, and he had the best chance of blending into his surroundings. He could only hope that no one would find him here. He continued to shiver, as much from the cold as from his recent ordeal, and wrapped his arms around the legs he had pulled to his chest. In fact, the only warmth came in the form of several tears that had managed to slip down his cheeks despite his best efforts to repress the flood of emotion that threatened to well up from within him. He couldn’t afford to make any noise. Not when that man, and other people like him, were still out there.

He forced himself to draw in one deep breath after another as his mind struggled to focus on _anything_ other than how badly his day had gone. He was still alive. That had to count for something, right? And those five guilders weren’t going to last him much longer anyway.

Blimey, he hadn’t a single coin left. How was he going to afford food tomorrow?

Gascon squashed these thoughts as soon as they managed to creep into his awareness. Right now, the only thing that mattered was sleep. And sleep was free.

As if the price of a good night’s rest really mattered. Discomfort alone was enough to ensure he would get very little, if any, sleep tonight. But most pressing of all was the repeated refrain of a question to which he had no answer.

_What’s going to happen to me?_

Bloody hell, what _was_ going to happen to him?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, Gascon, you poor dear. You poor, ill-mannered, dear. As much as it pains me to write about such unfortunate events, we all knew this was coming, didn’t we? And this isn’t even the worst of it…
> 
> And yes, Mimi’s Delivery Service is indeed a reference to a certain Studio Ghibli film, which was included for no other reason than…I just felt like it.


	12. The Adventurer’s Lifestyle

Shortly after finding himself homeless, Gascon had pondered whether now was as good a time as any to try out that adventurer’s lifestyle he had been so enthralled by ever since he was old enough to read. If there was ever a time to learn a new skill, he supposed it was when you were forced to do so against your will. When he tried to make himself look at it from that perspective, he supposed he was not disappointed, for every day, in one way or another, Gascon always managed to learn something new.

Today’s little morsel of knowledge was the realization that it was very possible to get a sunburn when it was cold out. Of course, the way his luck had been going lately, why should he be surprised?

The teen currently sat shivering on a cold, wet rock at the cliff’s base, just below Lari’s lowest street. He would have liked to be higher above the churning seawater, where its spray couldn’t reach him, but the line from his fishing pole would have been too short to reach otherwise. It was among the many compromises he had been forced to make ever since his money had run dry.

Forget about when life gave you lemons. If it was feeling particularly generous, you might even get a whole bloody lemon tree.

Another fun fact he had acquired since becoming completely and utterly destitute was that living off the land in the most primitive of fashions was only for people who had been born doing it, or perhaps those very same brave, and suspiciously resourceful, adventurers from his storybooks who were clearly not based on real people. And it was most certainly _not_ for those who had, until fairly recently, lived in a palace the size of a town, with servants to do one’s every bidding. He now had a vague idea of which berries would make him sick and not the slightest notion at all concerning which varieties wouldn’t. And he had since come to the firm conclusion that anyone who enjoyed eating oysters raw was stark raving mad.

And so he had decided it might be time to take to heart that old saying about the advantages of giving a man a fishing pole rather than just a fish. Seeing as a fishing pole was not yet among his dwindling repertoire of personal possessions, and he certainly hadn’t the funds to buy it, he proceeded to spend the morning running errands for a young boy barely over Marcassin’s age with the promise that his payment would be the kid’s handmade fishing pole, along with a small amount of bait. The boy proved to be true to his word, and Gascon headed for the base of the cliff on which the town was so precariously perched with all the haste his grumbling stomach demanded.

Morning had long since passed him by, as did noon, and his budding wisdom grew further still. The man who said fishing poles were a better thing to give someone than actual fish must’ve been a cold-hearted blighter.

The teen gasped when a cold breeze swept over him, sharpened wherever the spray had dampened his clothes. Whatever seawater that had managed to find him up here on his rocky perch accounted for the closest thing to a bath that he had gotten since he could no longer afford a room at the inn. He had never before believed that being unwashed would bother him as much as it did, and if the water wasn’t so frigid, even when winter was still a good two months away, he would have considered going for a swim, at least to have the satisfaction of being wet again. Maybe he’d also have better luck catching a fish if he went to them rather than expecting it to work the other way around.

Gascon nearly lost his grip on the pole when the line jerked, a good, strong tug he hoped was a fish and not simply his hook catching itself on a rock for the umpteenth time. The pole shuddered with some unseen force once again, the end dipping towards the water as if it was peering down in its own curiosity over what was responsible.

Once the shock over this possibility of success wore off, he began to reel in his catch, pulling back on the fishing pole as he did so to put as little distance between himself and his first true meal money didn’t buy. A head emerged from the water for just one second, only to be hidden from view with the next heaving of the sea. And then his prize was revealed again, followed by a body with a smooth, white belly and silver scales that gleamed wet and bright in the sunlight.

The fish thrashed as it was hauled higher and higher from its home, and it took all of his strength to swing its weight over to where he had since stood to make the task easier. It dropped with a wet smack upon the rocks, and he took no delay in pouncing upon it with both hands in an effort to subdue its wild fight for escape.

Removing the hook from its mouth, the next order of business, took a fair bit of maneuvering, but it was a task he was determined to complete when he had an aching stomach to urge him on.

His first smile in some time cracked across his face, only to be replaced by a yelp when the fish slipped from his hands with one resolute heave. It flopped towards the edge of the rock, and he just managed to grab it by the tail before it could slide over the edge. It slithered from side to side, and he grasped its head in his other hand to slow its movements. Gripping it tighter still in his efforts to haul it away from the sea, as soon as he attempted to pick the creature up, it jumped from his hands once again.

In what was surely some bizarre display of aquatic magic, the fish managed to remain airborne for a good several seconds longer than seemed natural as he attempted to catch it, until it slid through his arms like a very large and feisty bar of soap (yet another item he hadn’t expected to miss as much as he did). Gascon stared openmouthed as the fish flew in a graceful arch that ended in its disappearance beneath the navy blue waters below.

“Good goin’, butterfingers!” came a voice from behind, followed by a chorus of laughter that set his teeth on edge before he had even gotten a chance to identify the culprits.

Gascon spun around, still panting from his struggle. A group of boys lined the stone fence above him, some leaning upon it with their elbows, while others had decided to venture further over the edge to sit atop it with their legs dangling over the side. It didn’t help his pride any that not a single one of them came even close to his age.

“What in blazes are you looking at?” he asked, fists tightening.

“We’re askin’ ourselves the same thing,” one of the older boys replied, inciting an eruption of further sniggering so intense, one boy nearly fell from his perch with the extent to which he was doubled over.

“Well, the show’s over, so I suggest you get lost! Go on, get out of here!” When they failed to remove themselves from his sight, he made as if to lunge towards them. Despite the fact that he had no easy way of even reaching them from his current position, this was enough to motivate them to heed his threat, though they made certain to take their time of it, and their absence did not take place before several had stuck their tongues out in his direction. Resisting the urge to draw his gun was especially difficult in that moment. Then again, perhaps he was on to something. As far as fish were concerned, he meant.

A steadily growing hunger forced Gascon to stay on that rock for the rest of the afternoon, though he was sure to check back over his shoulder with some frequency to ensure he didn’t attract another audience. Only once did someone catch his eye, a middle-aged woman whose expression said his seemingly unwarranted glare was not appreciated.

By evening, he was still there.

He would have surely given up hours ago in any other circumstance, but the alternative task to which he would inevitably be forced to attend was finding a proper place to sleep for the night now that the barn he had been using for the past three nights was off limits. The farmer who owned the building was clearly of the spiteful sort, as he had no qualms against jabbing Gascon awake with his pitchfork. Though he had yet to check, he suspected he still bore the marks of his rude awakening.

The line jerked again, and Gascon pulled in his second fish that day, a ruddy brown one with bulging eyes. This one was smaller than the first, and it gave up with far less of a fight. At the memory of that raw oyster, he was struck with the realization that he had no way of cooking a fish, nor did he know the first thing about gutting it or removing the scales. After further deliberation as it flopped feebly in his lap, he threw it back.

* * *

Several more days had passed, and Gascon pondered long and hard how, in the early days of impending winter, he could convince someone to take their coat off. Once he had settled on the proper sort of plan for the job, the person he chose to unknowingly participate in it was a scrawny, middle-aged man sporting large spectacles and a long green coat, for he knew that those who wore glasses were typically not as courageous as those without. He figured it all boiled down to the fact that those very same glasses could all too easily be broken with a good punch to the nose. That certainly didn’t mean he had any intention of punching anyone, of course. That was the beauty of his plan. When used correctly, words could prove to be a far greater weapon than one’s fists.

With his motivation stemming from the knowledge that the weather certainly wasn’t getting any warmer, the teen marched up behind the man as he was busy inspecting a stand in the market selling an assortment of well-worn books, quite grateful he had washed his hair in the town fountain earlier that very same afternoon when the water was at its least frigid. A bath, even if a hurried one, always had a way of making one look more civilized.

“Sir?” he began once he was certain a proper amount of concern was apparent on his face. “Sir,” he repeated when the man failed to respond and tapped him on the back. This was enough to attract the attention of his…target, but before the man could turn around, he continued on with the tale he had fabricated for this very moment, “I wouldn’t move if I were you! You have the biggest spider I’ve ever seen, right on your back!”

Despite his warning, the man straightened to attention. “W-well, ge-get it off me, why don’t ya?”

Gascon clutched either side of his head in both hands. Even if the man couldn’t currently see him, a proper amount of feigned desperation could only be a good thing. “ _Me_? I don’t want to touch it! It’s so big, it looks a bit like a walnut with legs! It-it’ll probably bite if I anger it, and…” he gasped, “you should just see the size of its fangs!”

He thought he heard the bespectacled man whimper as his entire form began to tremble, despite every effort to remain as statuesque as humanly possible. “What…what do ya suggest I do, then? Can’t you knock it off?”

“There’s no time for that! It’s heading for your shoulder! Just…take your coat off! Quickly!”

The man burst into action with an admirable amount of haste, tugging the coat off over his head and flinging it to the ground with no shortage of ferocity. Free of the creature that might have brought about his demise, he practically leapt backwards in his attempt to distance himself from his perilous coat.

Gascon, on the other hand, crept closer, and they both proceeded to stare at the coat, scanning every inch of it for some sign of the monstrous bug.

“Where is it?” the man asked in a whisper, the quiver in his voice still present.

The teen inched just the slightest bit closer as he continued to study the crumpled coat before them. “You got it off just in time. I think it might’ve crawled into your sleeve.”

When he looked up, the man had retreated even further from the article of clothing from which he had so recently escaped. “What…what do we do now?”

“I think I have an idea,” Gascon said, taking on the most serious expression he could muster, and he lifted his foot to remove one of his boots. Raising it overhead, he began to beat the coat with his shoe in a great ferocity until the garment was thoroughly flattened. His task complete, Gascon picked the coat up by the corner and held it at arm’s length as if it might be contagious.

The man jerked backwards when the boy turned his way. “Do you want to check and see if I killed it? You’ll probably want to wash this when you get home, though. I think I heard it pop.” He attempted to approach the man, but every step Gascon took forward caused the man to take the same number of steps backwards.

“You…you just keep it, all right?”

“But the spider’s dead. I’m positively _certain_ I got it.” Gascon doubled his speed until the man was practically tripping over his own feet trying to escape.

“Really, I don’t want it. I-I appreciate the help, but…”

Gascon stopped in his tracks as the man thrust his arms out before him, as if he was considering a bit of shoving might be in order to prevent the tainted coat from making contact with him. Taking the boy’s pause as an opportunity to retreat, he turned around and marched away as quickly as his spindly legs would allow, though Gascon had the feeling he might have come a lot closer to running had no one been watching.

He slipped the acquired garment on, a smirk surfacing on his lips that he had been forced to repress ever since it had become clear that his plan would prove successful. The expression only grew in strength when he spotted the bespectacled man in the distance, rubbing his arms in the brisk evening air. He straightened his new coat with one, firm tug. His plan had certainly been a stroke of genius, he thought, and he laughed inwardly. At least _something_ had gone right for him for a change.

* * *

Night was just beginning to fall, and Gascon had once again taken to wandering the narrow streets of Lari, which felt like a completely different world once darkness had distorted previously benign surroundings and removed whatever scant comfort they possessed during daylight hours. His aimless pacing was a pastime he engaged in more and more frequently as of late, for just as the discomfort of sleeping outdoors made any form of restful slumber difficult, the gnawing in his empty stomach ensured that this was now effectively impossible.

As much as Gascon had hoped that sleep would surely have to become easier with exhaustion, he was miserably wrong. It was a paradox, really, how he could feel tired down to his very bones, enough that he could barely hold his head up, while at the same time so very much awake. It almost seemed as if he really was drawing closer and closer to becoming a walking corpse, just as he had feared. Each and every day, he felt as if he was suspended somewhere between sleep and alertness, without the ability to enjoy either to its fullness.

As desperately as he would have liked to sleep through just one thankless night, he knew it was unlikely to grace him this night any more than it had the last. Rather, he was already certain that he wouldn’t fall into his usual half-sleep until long after he had spent hours lying awake, wondering what would become of him once winter had arrived in full force. Wondering how stupid he must have been for life to have taken the turn that it had.

Gascon paused in his meandering to study a shop, a fruit stall, situated several storefronts away. The owner had almost finished moving his wares indoors for the night after it was clear that any customer stopping by to pick up supplies for a late dinner had long since returned home. There it was, all that food, and no one but one measly shopkeeper to watch over it.

He drew closer and pressed himself against the wall of the building next door, in a place where the streetlamps failed to illuminate. In between trips, the owner typically remained indoors for half a minute. More, when the load was heavy.

Stifling the desire to go the other way, he began to sidle closer, keeping to the deepest shadows. He jerked to a halt when the man emerged outside again. Gascon held his breath, hardly certain as to why he was even doing so, when the owner peered down the street in the opposite direction. He couldn’t help but flinch when the man’s gaze swept over his hiding place, though it was clear he had not been spotted when the shopkeeper returned to hauling boxes of unsold fruit back inside. By now, his work was almost complete. The fruit cart was the last thing he needed to wheel inside. He wouldn’t get another chance. Not tonight anyway, and his growling stomach wouldn’t allow for such an outcome.

It wasn’t as if this was something he was going to make a habit of or anything. Just this once. Just this one time, and he would resolve to try harder tomorrow. It was either this or starve.

It was either this or starve. Blimey, was he really doing this?

Gascon pushed himself away from the wall and began to stride forward with as little speed as his nerves would allow, but as much as he thought he could get away with. His hammering heart strengthened with each step he took, and its pace doubled when he passed in front of the open doorway. He froze when something crashed inside, the sound of something heavy being dropped, and his entire body stiffened further as a few curses drifted out to him. His thoughts raced over what action he should take, his limbs trembling with the strain required to remain silent when he was aching to do otherwise.

He waited for what felt like an eternity, but the sound of footsteps was enough to get him moving again. As he passed by the fruit cart, Gascon snatched the first apple within reach. He had later come to understand the importance of choosing his target with more care, or else the cascade he had set into motion could have been prevented.

It would seem the fruit he had chosen was of vital importance, for without it, every fruit in the cart began to slide from the display in one great avalanche. Gascon muttered a swear under his breath that would have truly made his little brother gasp had he been around to hear it. The voice that came from inside signified that the racket he had created had not gone unnoticed, a clear signal that it was time he made his escape. With as much finesse as he could muster, he stepped between the fruits rolling about on the ground with all due haste. Having passed the self-made obstacle course, he had barely been given a chance to run for it when a hand grabbed him by the arm.

“Stop right there, thief!” a man’s voice said from behind him. As much as Gascon struggled, it was not enough to free himself, and he was pulled closer until he had found himself facing the shopkeeper, who took no delay in snatching the pilfered fruit from his grip with his free hand.

Seeing as force would not work here, he could only hope words might help where his feeble strength could not. “Let me go! I’ve never stolen anything before! I was just hungry!”

But the man was already calling over a nearby town guard. Though they were not nearly as intimidating as Hamelin’s Boarriors, the light leather armor and short swords worn at the waists of every member of Lari’s local police force were enough to ensure that these men were not exactly the sort with whom the boy had ever wanted to get entangled.

“This little punk thought he could steal from me,” the shopkeeper said, sending the boy in question a disparaging glare.

“I-I’m sorry! I won’t do it again!” Gascon tried once more, but no one seemed particularly moved by his pleas. He almost doubted he’d be able to hear their reply anyway had they decided to spare him over the sound of his own pounding heart and the thoughts swirling about in his head in such a whirl-storm that it made him feel dizzy.

He was no thief. He had not left home just to become a common criminal. So what was he bloody thinking?

The only change in the former prince’s state was that it was the town guard who now had him by the arm, in a grip twice as strong as the shopkeeper’s. At this point, he would have come willingly, not that he thought the man would have believed him anyway. His legs felt like noodles, and he hardly had any energy left to remain upright. He couldn’t have run very far even if he had wanted to.

A short walk later, and Gascon was shoved into a small prison cell with nothing but a hard cot and a small, barred window set high up in the back wall. When he looked back, the guard had still not left, but was watching him with one hand resting on the hilt of his sword. “If ya have any weapons, ya best hand ‘em over now.”

“I don’t have anything,” Gascon said. He took a step backwards in an attempt to put as much distance between himself and the guard as possible, but the man, clearly unconvinced, only followed until he had his prisoner cornered. The guard reached out, pulling back one side of the boy’s long coat to reveal the pistol he kept on his belt at all times. He snatched it away before Gascon could stop him and held it out of reach when the boy attempted to lunge for it.

“Then what’s this, eh?”

“It doesn’t even work.” This statement might as well have been the truth. It wasn’t as if he planned on using it on anyone. He didn’t have any desire to become a murderer now. Gascon’s voice cracked. “Give it back! It’s all I have left!”

“You’ll get it back when I says ya get it back. No sooner an’ no later. Until then, we’ll figure out what to do with ya in the morning.”

The guard left the cell, slamming the door behind him with one final, echoing clang, leaving him in a world of darkness that not even the candlelight from out in the corridor could hope to penetrate. Gascon slumped in the corner in exhaustion, as if in that moment, every last ounce of strength had finally and completely left him, every sleepless night, every missed meal coming back to haunt him in one sickening rush. He was so, so hungry. He had forgotten the last time he had eaten anything worthwhile.

Never before had he felt so lost. Not when he was faced with the terrifying prospect of one day ruling an entire empire nor even the moment he had come to understand that even this dreaded future was no longer relevant to him.

Gascon ran a sleeve over his eyes, and when that was not enough to stem the impending tide, he buried his face in his hands and sobbed, uncaring if anyone else heard him. He should have never left home. He might as well have no home to return to. He would never be welcome back now. He could never look his father in the eye again.

And worst of all, he could never again face Marcassin, could never tell him what a failure his big brother had become.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Flip, the poor dab’s really done it this time, en’t it? Reviews might not help our poor boy any, but the author would very much appreciate them.


	13. Swaine

_“Gascon, Gascon, I have an idea!”_

_Marcassin bounced up and down beside the courtyard fountain like an oversized rabbit. The elaborately detailed model ship, which was nearly his size, mind you, didn’t seem to have any effect on weighing him down like one would expect._

_“Why don’t we play pirates? We even have a boat now!” He held his new birthday present up, as if his elder brother really hadn’t noticed it long before. The child had been practically lost from view behind it, after all, and Gacon mused that the legs that hopped below actually belonged to the ship and not, as was less unsettling, a young boy._

_“You do remember Father telling you that wasn’t a toy, don’t you?” Leave it to their old man to give them presents they couldn’t use. And Marcassin had never even been the type to like boats. That was a trait strictly reserved for the elder prince._

_The same went for pirates, come to think of it._

_The child’s hopping stilled as he began to juggle the large ship between one arm and then the other until he had managed to maneuver it over to his side. “I know. I’m not going to put it in the water. It’s just here for scenery.”_

_Gascon crossed his arms, eyeing his younger brother sternly from where he sat on the fountain’s edge. “But you’re forgetting one key detail. Your birthday was_ yesterday _, which means I’m not obligated to play anything with you today.”_

_The child’s large eyes blinked at his older brother as he worked to comprehend what this meant for him. “But…but I thought you_ liked _pretending to be pirates.” His face lit up with a hopeful sort of smile as he continued, “You…you can even be the captain, and I’ll be…I’ll be the boat-sway…um…” Marcassin furrowed his eyebrows as he attempted to form the word, “the boat-swain.”_

_Gascon snorted. “How many times do I have to tell you, that’s not how you say it, you dummy. It’s pronounced bosun, not boatswain.”_

_His younger brother attempted to stand taller, but the weight of the boat in his arms hindered any such efforts. Not that it would have made much of a difference had he succeeded. “I’m not a dummy, Gascon! That’s how it’s spelled!”_

_“I don’t care how it’s spelled, that’s not how you say it.” Gascon eased himself to his feet and planted his hands on his waist. “What’s a ‘swain’ supposed to be anyway?”_

_Marcassin shrugged, and the elder prince laughed. “Just put that thing away already,” Gascon continued as he turned on his heel, his head held high. “If it gets broken, we both know who Father will blame.” He paused to glance over his shoulder one, final time, “Captain’s orders.”_

* * *

The first rays of morning trickling through the iron bars of his cell window were responsible for waking the former prince from dreams of the past, memories that felt so foreign, it was as if they truly _were_ mere dreams and not the reality he had so foolishly left behind. It had been a while since he had the good fortune of sleeping behind a locked door. But it didn’t bring enough comfort to make up for where he was or what he had done to end up here.

Gascon had tried to tell himself that there could be some positives to his current situation, depending on how one looked at it. Jail meant shelter, and it meant food. If his sentence was long enough, it meant a place to wait out the impending winter. He had heard that it didn’t snow in Lari due to its proximity to the ocean, but if autumn was anything to go by, it was still bound to get so cold that he had severe doubts as to whether or not he would still be in possession of all his fingers and toes by the end of it if he didn’t secure someplace warm to stay.

Come to think of it, if he didn’t have this prison cell, he had nowhere else to go. Wasn’t that pathetic?

The door to his cell creaked open behind him, but even then, Gascon failed to budge from where he was lying on his stomach on the cot, the smell of which he tried his very best not to think too much about. The reason for his apathy was twofold. He figured he’d be here for a good while longer, so what was the point? Plus, he didn’t think he had the energy for movement right now anyway. Of course, if the guard had brought breakfast, then that was another story entirely.

“Get up, boy. It’s about time we figured out what we’re doin’ with ya. Ya don’t think ya can just go ‘round stealin’ an’ get away with it, do ya?”

No. That’s what he thought being locked in a cell was for. But what did he know? As much as he would have liked to voice those thoughts aloud, he remained silent.

The guard’s voice spoke up again, louder this time. “Get up, boy! I’m not messin’ around!”

With a tired groan, Gascon did as he was told, sitting up and rubbing his eyes. This guard was different from the one last night. He had a mustache, the main distinguishing feature he could recall. It had been dark when he had been arrested. Plus, he hadn’t been too interested in the face of his captor to pay much notice before now.

“Since you’re young, we might be willin’ to go easy on ya. But only if your parents come an’ pay for what ya took.”

“I took one thing, and the shopkeeper got it back. He didn’t actually lose anything.” Gascon wasn’t in much of a mood for being polite at the moment. Worst case scenario, his sass would prolong his imprisonment, and he’d have a place to wait out the winter. Big deal.

“A whole cartload of fruit ended up in the street. I’d hardly call that no great loss. Come now, tell me where your parents are, kid. If they’re halfway decent, their punishment will be worse than what I can dish out anyway.”

Was that supposed to motivate him?

Gascon crossed his arms. “And what if I don’t? You don’t plan on keeping me here forever, do you?” Forever was a bit overkill. But exactly how many more months would it be before spring was here?

It wasn’t the best sign when the guard chuckled. “The customary punishment for stealin’ in Lari is ten lashin’s. If that’s really what ya’d prefer, then I’d be more than happy to oblige.”

Was this guy some sort of sadist or something? This threat alone was enough to override his earlier composure and send his heart racing. He might have been able to accept an extended prison sentence. But corporal punishment was most certainly where he drew the line. “W-wait a minute. What are you on about-” Gascon sprung to his feet when the guard turned to leave. “M-my parents don’t even live around here. I’ve been visiting…my aunt. Go get my cousin, Katrine. Maybe _she_ can pay for what I owe.”

At his urgency to come up with a deal before the guard could leave, he hadn’t exactly put much thought into what he was even saying. He could only hope Katrine would be obliging. He hadn’t seen her in a while, and who knew what her conniving brother had said about him in the meantime?

The guard turned back, scratching his chin as he considered the teen’s suggestion. “Katrine eh?”

“Yeah, she lives three doors down from the town doctor.”

“All right, I’ll be back in a bit.” The guard made as if to leave, only to turn back around one more time with another laugh that set Gascon’s teeth on edge. “Don’t go anywhere.”

* * *

Gascon thought he would have been happy to see Katrine’s face again. He was wrong.

Nearly an hour later, a face that was much prettier than the guard’s peered through the barred window in his cell door. Though it was certainly much easier on the eyes than that mustachioed maniac, the expression alone was enough to make him seriously reconsider which one he’d rather meet in a dark alley.

“I’m here, ya terrible boy! The guard told me everything. What in the world were ya thinkin’?” Well, this was certainly off to a great start.

Even though a sufficiently solid door stood between them, Gascon approached with caution. “Katrine,” he raised one hand in a nervous wave, “haven’t seen _you_ in a while…”

“No, Gascon, ya haven’t. Not since Reese told me ya were a big, fat liar! And on top o’ all that, ya have to be a thief, too! Why, Gascon, if I had known-”

She had just taken to shaking a fist at him when he interrupted her. “Listen, Katrine, you’ve got it all wrong. This has all just been a big misunderstanding. I didn’t even take anything. I just bumped into that fruit cart, and everything fell out. It wasn’t my-”

“I don’t wanna hear it.” Somehow, it was the fact that her voice had _fallen_ in volume that made his excuse die in his throat. “Ya asked me to come here to bail ya out. Is that right?”

It had sounded like a solid plan at the time. His only plan, really. “Yeah, that’s right.” Okay, it was a really awful plan, he had to admit.

“Gascon…I get that you’re poor. But I’m poor, too. And at least ya only have yourself to consider. I have my sick mother to look after.” She paused, squeezing her eyes tightly shut for a second as she thought over her next words. “You have a lot of nerve askin’ me for money. I’m only doin’ this because I used to like ya. And because ya look mighty pitiful in there.” Pausing once more, she wiped at her eyes, and what came next would be her final words to him, “I never want to see ya again, ya selfish boy!”

Katrine disappeared with an angry flip of her head, though the distinct sound of sniffles trailed after her that stood in sharp contrast to her recent outburst. Gascon was no longer certain which would have been worse. That or the lashings. It was too late to reconsider his actions now, though.

He rushed to the window in his cell door, calling out into the dimly lit hallway beyond. “I’m not a thief, Katrine, I swear! It was an accident! Just a bloody accident!”

Several minutes later, the sound of footsteps drifted back to him, and he ran back to the window to catch a form approaching through the shadows. For a split second, he held on to the scant hope that Katrine might have softened in her anger towards him, but it took but a second longer to prove his suspicions to be false.

The guard with the mustache was returning, a rusted old key in one hand. Gascon shot him the saltiest glare he could muster. The man didn’t seem to care.

“That girl just told me you’re not really her family,” the man said as he unlocked the door. “Shoulda known you were lyin’ through your teeth, boy. You’re lucky it doesn’t matter now.”

As soon as the door opened, Gascon took no delay in stepping out into the hallway beyond. “You have something that belongs to me, you know.”

“Eh?”

He followed the man down the hallway back into the main office. “My gun. Because if _I_ can’t get away with stealing, then neither should you.”

“You’re a rude, little bugger, aren’t ya?” the man shot back over his shoulder, but his usual amusement seemed to not have been dampened one bit. He opened a drawer behind his desk and retrieved the item in question. “Here, take it, but mind where ya point that thing. You’re liable to get into some real trouble if ya don’t know what’s good for ya.”

Gascon grabbed his pistol and returned it to its old hiding place beneath his coat. Without another word, he was already out the door when the town guard spoke up again.

“Hold on a second.” The man followed him outside just as Gascon was considering the possibility that he had changed his mind, after all.

“Seein’ as ya clearly have no family in town, I’m gonna need ya to leave,” the guard went on. “We’ve already had runaways causin’ trouble in Lari, and we don’t need more. I’m escortin’ ya to the town gates. Come along now."

Gascon hesitated. There sure were a lot of people assuming he had somewhere to go. Now what was he supposed to do? He already couldn’t afford to stay at the inn anymore. Now the whole bloody town was trying to throw him out!

“There ya are, little brother. I’ve been lookin’ all over for ya.”

They both turned to face the source of the new voice. A young man was approaching them, surely no more than a year Gascon’s elder. His bushy blonde hair was nearly long enough to obscure one eye, while the other peered out at them with an unsettling deadness that sharply contrasted the cocky tilt to the boy’s grin. It was the very same dullness found in the eyes of fish that the former prince so loathed. A chill crept along Gascon’s spine at the thought.

Gascon stiffened when the newcomer threw an arm around his shoulders. “Mom and dad sent me to find ya after ya ran away, so I’d better take ya home. Come along, mate.”

“Guess I’ve got no choice, huh?” The question had a lot more meaning than might have seemed obvious on the surface.

“Ya bet ya don’t.” The stranger waved a hand at the guard, whose eyes had been narrowing in suspicion the whole time. “Thanks for findin’ ‘im for me!”

The guard’s eyes widened when he was struck with a sudden comprehension that Gascon himself seemed to have been left out of. “Wait a tick, I know ya! Stay right where ya are!”

By now, the boy was running, Gascon trailing a short distance behind after the stranger had tugged him by the arm to get him moving, the reason for Gascon’s cooperation the fact that there was little time to think about why they were even doing this to begin with.

“Nah, never seen _yer_ ugly mug before! So long, ya rotter!” the stranger tossed back over his shoulder.

“Thanks a lot!” Gascon said. “I just got out of jail!”

“Ya didn’t think ya’d be runnin’ from the law again so soon, huh? Well, get used to it, mate! That old codger ain’t gonna catch us anyway!”

Sure enough, it wasn’t long before their pursuer had been lost far behind them, as too were his shouts for them to stop and face judgement. To complete their escape, the stranger tugged him into a nearby alley.

“Who the heck even _are_ you?” Gascon asked between breaths.

“Ya thought I wouldn’t notice another pickpocket on my turf, didja?”

That didn’t even come close to answering the question. Gascon straightened at the accusation. “Pickpocket? Who said I was-”

Once again, he found himself interrupted. “It was bound to happen, wasn’t it? It’s how we all start out. Once society kicks us into the gutter,” he kicked a nearby can for emphasis, “what other choice do we have? But seein’ as I just sprung ya from jail, it looks like ya could use some help.”

That was not in the slightest what had just happened. _Katrine_ had gotten him out of jail. But something else was still nagging at him. “Have you been stalking me or something?” At least that was _one_ sentence he had been allowed to finish.

The stranger crossed his arms. “Is that how ya thank a person who just saved yer skin?”

He was getting nowhere with this guy. “Yeah, thanks, but no thanks.” Gascon turned away, but had gone no more than a few paces when the boy made a decidedly worrying statement that made him stop in his tracks.

“Ain’t ya forgettin’ somethin’?”

When Gascon looked back, the other boy was holding his pistol out before him with a smirk on his face.

“Wh-why, you…you-you give that back right-!” Gascon lunged for his pilfered pistol, but the thief hid the item under his jacket and turned his back to him.

“If ya can’t stop someone from pickin’ yer pockets, what kind of thief does that make ya, huh?”

“I never said I _was_ a thief!” Gascon attempted to reach around him, but the other boy stepped neatly out of his grasp.

“And what are ya gonna do about it? Who’s the one with the gun, huh?”

“Are you threatening me?”

His wish was granted far sooner than expected when the thief turned around quite without warning and tossed the pistol his way. Gascon attempted to catch it, but his hands only met with empty air before it struck him square in the chest and clattered to the ground. Not too eager to leave the stolen item unattended for any longer than necessary, he scrambled to retrieve his gun before any more misfortune could befall it. His teeth gritted when the other teen laughed, but by the time he had straightened to his feet, whatever he had poised on his lips was interrupted yet again.

“Ya haven’t been on the streets long, huh?” The stranger’s voice had dropped, and his eerily dead eyes watched him from beneath shaggy bangs. “I can tell because you’re still not that dirty, and ya don’t have any holes in your clothes yet.”

“Aren’t you observant,” Gascon said, his gun still gripped at his side. “Seeing how _you_ look like you died last week, I can only assume _you’ve_ been on your own a lot longer.”

The boy bared his teeth in a grin, all but a missing upper canine. “Yep.” With that, he made a show of clearing his throat and thrust out a hand. “Name’s Connor. And what can I call ya, mate?”

“You don’t catch on very quickly when people want you to back off, do you?”

Connor withdrew his hand and closed his eyes like one dealing with a difficult child. When he opened them again, any sign of his earlier amusement was gone. “We could work well together, you and I, and from what I’ve seen, ya need a guy who’s got your back. I assure ya, no one else will. And hey, I’ve even got somethin’ ya might want.”

Gascon’s mind cycled through all the other things Connor could have taken. It was only until after he had realized that he had nothing else to lose besides his newly reclaimed pistol that his interest was piqued, albeit only a little. “What could _you_ possibly have that I’d want?”

Connor shrugged. “Oh, just food and a place to sleep. Unless that doesn’t-”

Now it was Gascon’s turn to cut him short. “And what’s the catch?”

At this, Connor’s earlier smirk had returned with full force. “Oh, no catch. I need a guy to watch my back just as much as you do, is all. It’s a dangerous world out there, especially for people like us. So whatta ya say?”

_“You can even be the captain, and I’ll be the boat-swain.”_

Once again, it didn’t seem he had much choice, now did he? Gascon said the very first thing that came to mind. “Swaine. The name’s Swaine.”

_“What’s a ‘swain’ supposed to be anyway?”_

Darned if _he_ knew.

This time, he took the hand offered him and shook it. “That deal of yours doesn’t sound half bad, just as long as you don’t forget which of us has a gun.”

“Yeah, yeah…I won’t forget. Right this way…Swaine.” Connor sauntered by him, only to turn on his heel to face him once more, his dead eyes showing the first sign of life in the form of a dangerous glint. “I guess this means ya owe me one, mate.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve read plenty of stories where Gascon names himself after his older self (of course, he’s unaware at this time that the man visiting from the future is him as an adult), but I wanted to do something different where the name is inspired by a mispronunciation courtesy of young Marcassin. For years, I believed the word “boatswain” was pronounced exactly as it was spelled, until I watched some pirate movie and learned that it’s pronounced “bosun”. It’s a kind of random source of inspiration, but…my point is, I liked his name being inspired by a memory of his younger brother.
> 
> Updates may become less frequent for a while because I have a whole new section of the story to plan and write.


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